


They Had Crossbows

by PurpleMoon3



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AB:VH is a Hell Dimension, Crossover, De-Aged Scoobs, Dimensional Travel, Franken Weres, Friendship, Gen, Government Conspiracies, Mad Science, Post Obsidian Butterfly, Post Season 3 Mayor Explosion, Slayers got to Slay, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-10-28 18:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 138,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10836720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Having fallen through a rift brought on by Wilkins' death, pint-sized Scoobies find themselves in a world where the supernatural is commonplace. Throw in sneaky governments, power-hungry vamps, and over-protective lycanthropes, it could almost be home.





	1. The Great Escape

**Author's Note:**

> The version of this story being posted to Ao3 has been *slighty* edited from the version on [Twisting the Hellmouth](https://www.tthfanfic.org/Story-23568/VampireCow+They+Had+Crossbows.htm). Some changes in word choice and grammar corrections are being made, as well as removal of dashes. Why I kept inserting needless dashes at that point in my life I don't know. The goal is to get three chapters revised a week, and then to finally write and complete the last two.

Xander gave a nod and one of his best friends, currently shrunk down to the size of ten year old, darted out from the low line of brush she had been crouched behind. Buffy crossed the parking lot quickly and rolled with slayer-given grace beneath a car.  Her slight, speedy form only a vague shadow in the full moon's light. After a moment there was a double flash from the compact mirror Buffy held and Xander returned a single quick flash of his own in acknowledgment. The blonde knew what she was to do. Xander hiked up his small canvas backpack and crawled along the ground back to their cover where Willow waited with her cobbled together equipment.  
  
They hadn't realized blowing up the Mayor would create a temporary metaphysical power vacuum on the Hellmouth. Their witch-in-training had postulated that after 100+ years drawing on it's energy and siphoning power off for various projects Wilkins' absence destabilized the already thin dimensional barriers. At least they were all together. Scoobies United. Family.   
  
With the exception of Giles. He had been hopefully out of the blast radius and was safely back in Sunnydale trying to find a way to bring them home, but until then...  
  
Willow spun from where she had been keeping look out; crossbow point aimed at Xander's chest. Xander raised his hands non-threateningly and jerked his head toward the facility they were planning to take down. Initially they had been thrilled, if a little worried, that the supernatural was so well known and accepted. Vampires were legal citizens and lycanthropy was considered a viral disease like AIDS. Sure they didn't have any money and had somehow been regressed by about eight years, but hey, they were alive! Which is more than they had been expecting what with the Mayor's Ascension and Vampire/Demon Army awaiting them. Plus, they could totally swing the kid-thing in their favor and get some government help, especially for Oz on full moon nights, but that was before they had grasped the actual social climate of this dimension.  
  
And Oz was paying for it.  
  
Xander took the compound crossbow he'd done a lot of illegal things to get from his backpack and took aim at the great gray fortress that was standing between them and their wolfy friend. He'd gotten the idea for the break-in portion from a movie, but it was their only way into the fortress-like structure.  Willow gave him a flash of her resolve face as she crouched and headed off into the darkness to work on her portion of the mission. The sound of their doings were lost in the numerous howls and animalistic cries audible from within the building despite the layers of concrete and insulation.  
  
They had a friend to rescue.  
  


* * *

  
It was all over the news. Some thought it a joke. Despite the full moon only having been the night before, the Lunatic Café was packed as all flavor of shifter showed up to discuss it.  
  
A government safehouse had been raided.  
  
By children.  
  
Who were as yet unaccounted for after leading the local law enforcement on a high speed chase in a stolen car. While shifters had been out hunting during the full moon vampires and humans had watched in awe and surprised amazement as the story had been picked up by local news and broadcast live. Watching a tiny blonde girl lean out a window with a crossbow that looked like it weighed as much as she did, and shoot out the tires of pursuing squad car, was quickly becoming a dear and beloved memory. Considering that a news helicopter had recorded it from above the shot resembled something more out of a weird action flick than anything else.  
  
Not that viewers were complaining. The small television in the break room had been dragged out and set on the bar with the volume maxed out so everyone in the lycanthrope run diner could hear. Though the news feed of the chase had been cut short after the vehicle carrying three human children and one transformed pup hit the tree line, the aftermath was beautiful in daylight.  
  
A young woman reporter was standing on the road with a pile of roughly hewn logs behind her and, buried under them, what was clearly a police car. "...Officers within the vehicle sustained minor injuries from the blockage of logs that was released in what appears to have been an amazingly well thought out trap." The screen switched to a black and white recording reminiscent of cop shows with subtitles for the hearing impaired.  
  
"...who are these kids?" An unseen voice choked off as the vehicle swerved to avoid a crossbow bolt. The flashing lights of the car ahead could be seen in pursuit of a gray Toyota that spun around and began driving backwards. "The Hell?!"  
  
While details could not be seen from a distance, two small figures could be seen fighting in the front seat before the first squad car drifted across to block the view. The radio crackled. "They're slowing down. Repeat they are slowing down, one of the suspects has crawled onto the roof!"  
  
Distant, but clearly visible, was a figure crouched on the small but fast vehicle holding one arm straight in the air as something gleamed in its grip. A distinct rumble could be heard echoing along the road and the second squad car spun out as it tried to avoid the sudden avalanche of wood that buried the first. "Shit!"  
  
The recording cut out as the news reporter came back on screen standing with a young male nurse. His hair was messy as if he'd not yet had time to brush it but his clothing was rumple-free and bleached white. "I'm standing here with Mr. Alcato, who works in the wolf branch of the St. Peters Safehouse." Alcato looked uncomfortable. "Is it true that the staff knew this attack was coming?"  
  
The nurse shrugged without an ounce of professionalism. "Well, it's like I remember those kids coming in last month. They wanted to see their friend, said he'd only come in for Full-moon, like we were some lycanthrope hotel, and we had to tell them no. 114, I mean, Oz, we couldn't find any records for him but he's young enough that we weren't expecting much. Anyway, they didn't want to leave. Made a real fuss about holding children for ransom and experimentation and I remember that little red-haired girl threatening to put frogs in my car." He shook his head, a little dazed. "We had to call security. I know Dr. Tanner was complaining about them wandering around the building trying to get in... and that kid. The boy... if anyone needed to see a specialist he does."  
  
"Why do you think this? Could he, too, have been a lycanthrope?"  
  
The nurse shook his head again. "No, it's just that when the security team was leading them off that first day I remember his eyes. He had the same look my granddad gets when thinking about the War, but I saw some of the footage from the off-network cameras and even if he did take down a security team by himself its the blonde girl I'd worry about. She punched down a reinforced door. I don't know where these kids came from, or what they are, but they're extremely dangerous."   
  
"Thank you, Mr. Alcato." The reporter turned into the camera. "Back to you Jared, we'll be back when we know more."  
  
Within the Lunatic Café phones buzzed and calls were started in earnest. Somewhere out there were a bunch of powerful kids armed with weapons straight out of the middle ages and they needed to be found.  
  


* * *

  
Rafael was annoyed as he picked up the phone. He'd been fielding calls and deploying as many Rats as he could considering the circumstances. It wasn't everyday a mass breakout of a safehouse occurred and he'd been one of the first to realize it when one of his men called in about a cousin that had called from a payphone requesting pick up and clothing. The cousin was a werebear, and hopped up on so many drugs as to be barely understandable, but they managed to track the call and send a team.   
  
Similar situations were cropping up all over and he needed to organize his people to find those they could and get them away from the government search teams.  Rafael didn't trust any authority but his own, and for good reason.

"Anita." He greeted while making a notation in his lists as an underling brought in a report that two new wererats had been discovered and were being transported to St. Louis, though it would take some time to do it without attracting the attention of the official search parties. "I saw the news the instant I made it back, I've already got people on it... No. I have not... Anita, please, understand I am very busy and I'll call you back when I can." He hung up on her.   
  
He did wonder what those children were. His contacts had managed to get more information than what the news network had wrangled from the security files and police reports. He'd seen a copy of the boy-child that had taken out two adults with techniques straight out of the special forces training manual, as one of his advisers recognized the moves. The computer virus that had hacked into the safehouse mainframe and looped all the security cameras to conceal the children's movements was genius. The fact that all the safehouse vehicles had their gas tanks punctured and fuel lines cut for good measure was art. The King of the Rats wondered who the kids were, who had trained them, but that wasn't the most pressing issue.  
  
He, as did the Ulfric, wanted to find those that had managed to escape during the confusion and get them to a true safehouse.  
  


* * *

  
Oz had slept through most of the day. Xander and Buffy took turns carrying his minified butt through the woods as they marched in single file to the designated encampment with the Oz carrier in front, Willow in the middle, and the remaining Scooby wiping out whatever traces of their passage he/she could detect. Xander had been dipping more than he liked into his solider memories and Buffy was scrapping together instinct and what lessons on concealment and tracking Merrick had managed to instill in her before his death.  
  
They had been doing pretty well, Xander thought. "Got any threes?" He asked the group. Oz was still drowsy but at least he could move on his own. His eyes had taken on a permanent amber glow that irked Xander. Stupid government bullies.   
  
"Here." Willow handed a three over with a sigh before putting her cards face down on the ground and reaching into her little pack for a bag of cheese crackers. "This would be just like a real camp out if we had some marshmallows."  
  
Oz had gotten his head shaved while in the wereprison, as the Scoobies had come to call it, and was not happy about it. He was sitting against Willow and running his hand through the peach fuzz that just did not look right on their friend. "Guys, I could totally pull off a snow cone thing." Or maybe he wasn't as upset about it as he seemed. "Think we can swing by a Wal-Mart sometime soon?"  
  
Buffy was standing away from the fire, back to them, and staring into the surrounding wood performing sentry duty. In a few hours she'd switch with Willow, then Xander, and tomorrow night Oz would be added into the rotation. "Yeah, I could use some new shoes, even if they were made in a sweatshop by starving children. These have seriously seen better days... heads up!" The slayer called as she stepped closer to the fire and dropped her crossbow only to pull a stake from her belt.   
  
At her action Xander and Oz both crouched and Willow squeaked before retreating, as physically the weakest, and all three held stakes of their own.  
  
"You need not be frightened, mes infants." A soft sensuous voice spoke and it was everything the Scoobs could do not to drop their weapons. A man entered their encampment with a pleasant smile and amazing blue eyes.  
  
"Holy crap." Xander whispered. If tall, dark, and pale lost the lace and found a leather coat... "It's a French Angel, with girl hair!"


	2. An Impasse

The French vampire with the girl hair, which Buffy could think of at least three ways to use to her advantage in a fight, either didn't hear the comment or chose to ignore it. Considering he was a vampire, and thus had superb hearing, Buffy was betting on the later. And why did her friend have the need to bring up her oh so recent ex? Frenchie looked nothing like Angel!  
  
"Xander!" Buffy hissed as she turned to get a good look at the second vampire that entered her awareness. This one was distracting with hair that glowed like warm gold in the firelight, while shadows dancing shadows kept her from seeing his face clearly. The slayer felt a worm of unease wriggle in the back of her mind; she hated it when master vamps popped up with special powers. First there had been The Master and Drusilla with their hypnotism, and then Kakistos and his fricking 2X4 necessary heart.  
  
Now that she was on high alert her slayer senses were picking up several more supernatural signatures though they felt more like Oz than the undead. Not demons, a plus, but between the four of them they only had one silver-edged knife and Buffy didn't want to know how Xander had acquired it. Silver was damned expensive here and she slept better pretending her best friends were not criminal masterminds.  
  
While Buffy contemplated their odds of taking the new comers Xander snorted in amusement. His eyes darted from Deadboy's slightly prettier counterpart to Harvey Dent's most recent incarnation if his guess about the hidden scars was accurate. "Hey, if the shoe fits... and I told you to stake his ass but does anyone listen to me?" The last part was grumbled unhappily as the boy moved closer to his bestest buddy, silently letting her know he would back whatever play she chose. He had picked up on Buffy's warning that there were allot more baddies lurking in the woods than he could see. Buffy, and maybe Oz, were the only ones who could possibly figure the numbers so he'd leave the fight-or-flight decision up to them.  
  
He personally had the urge to take them all out, but that was probably just his deep seated dislike of all things corpse related.  
  
He could feel the hairs on his arms rising as Willow hummed to comfort herself and inched closer to Oz.  Her wide green eyes darted about and into the darkness of the forest. If Xander could feel her magic bouncing around in response to her nervousness he wondered just what Oz was feeling. Willow nibbled her lip.  
  
Cold blue eyes drifted from the protectively standing slayer and scooby to the unsure red head. Xander did not like the calculating look in those undead eyes and felt his knuckles pop around the stake in his hand.  
  
"Xander." Oz practically growled, and his next words were harsh and alien. "-I think he's doing something to me.-"  
  
Xander blinked at the sudden onslaught of growling that was Klingon. He hadn't realized Oz was a Trekkie, then again, he was busy with the Band and most of the time they hung out it was slayer oriented. Of course Willow liked the series, but she wasn't a die hard fan like him.  He took a deep breath.  There was no such thing as a native speaker, and was hard to practice on his own. 

"-What do you mean?-" Xander cringed inwardly as the blond vamp's eyes focused on the two boys with interest. Oh. Angelus on a Pogo Stick. He hated it when the vamps were intrigued. That was when they were all creepy with the mind games.  
  
The Angel like vampire had stepped closer: When? Xander hadn't seen it and judging by Buffy's more predatory stance she had been caught off guard too. "Jeunes précieux, you have no need to worry for your safety. It seems, by happy coincidence, you have wandered into my territory, and as Master of the City I would like to offer haven to you, and your _wolf_." He said wolf in a different tone, low and drawn out and with something that made Xander want to lower his weapon.  
  
Buffy blinked and for a split second she looked confused, her stance relaxing marginally. Oz whined and took a step forward nearly dragging Willow with him. The blonde slayer kicked at the crossbow on the ground, causing it to flip up into her hand, and jumped backward with a snarl as she reeled off a perfect if dated accent. "Je ne sais pas qu'il est vous font, mais l'arrêt!"  
  
Now that got a reaction. Burning blue eyes turned on Buffy as the vampire tilted his head the slightest bit and offered a compelling smile. It was a smile meant to disarm, and yet within it a hard steel persisted. "Vous êtes français, petite guerrière?"  
  
"Non." Buffy responded, but her voice didn't hold nearly as much heat as it had. Xander had absolutely no idea what they were saying and hated it; whatever the vampire was doing. He felt the meaningless words wrap around him and rub soothingly. He closed his eyes as his stake wielding arm slowly relaxed at the phantom hug.  
  
"Vous parlez si bien, vos compagnons?"  
  
"Je fais." Oz said in his cool, calm voice. He was looking only at the vampire. His eyes burned with an internal light of longing. Willow held his arm now as if to restrain him, but by the look on her face she wasn't sure why she was doing so. The stake remained in her hand, ready. Never surrender your weapon; the third rule of the Scoobies and one that had been hammered in by a British librarian.  
  
"Sont vous non fatigué, mes enfants?"  
  
In his mind, Xander felt something shift. There was a low growl and he saw quite clearly a girl he had liked, a girl he hadn't been able to tell he liked as she was so shy despite her power and he was so scared of yet another rejection, stand blankly as a mad vampiress walked up and slashed her throat.  Killed by a goddamn manicure.  He shivered and it was like a dog shaking off water after a swim. He blinked and looked around. Where did they all come from? His eyes widened as he took in people and wolves that had seemingly popped out of the ground while he'd been off in the land of pretty-eyes and alluring voices.  
  
They evidently noticed his very visible awakening. "His eyes..." One of the men murmured in shock.  
  
Xander did not have time to think; they had no hope of getting out of this situation without their Tank. Buffy was just standing there, looking at the lead vampire who had motioned to someone, and Oz hadn't moved either with Wills at his side. Their stakes were dangling from their hands. Buffy's had nearly fallen to the dirt with her grip so relaxed. One of the men was walking closer as if to take the wooden implements of death while two others were slowly circling Xander.  
  
The golden haired vamp was staring at him, and Xander bit his lip as he moved a step away from yet another pair of burning eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm really, really sorry about this." He spoke aloud and noticed how the interlopers froze waiting to see what the brunette would do.  
  
Xander spun with all the speed he could muster and punched Buffy in the jaw. It was like hitting concrete.  
  
"What the Hell?!" Buffy screamed and touched the spot he'd struck. Her shrill, high-pitched girl tone seemed to slice through whatever haze Willow and Oz were in and both jumped and peered around. Willow let out another squeak and spun, shaking, as her magic kicked up another notch and she waved her hand at her backpack where it sat open by the fire. A spare wooden stake and a hunting knife levitated out and floated like deadly hummingbirds. All eyes followed the movement and, surprisingly, a few of the wolves slunk away.  
  
Xander watched all while shaking the pain from his hand and mentally cursing Willow's inability to conceal her assets before the final throw down. He grumbled at Buffy, "Since when did you turn into a Rosetta stone?" He really hoped he wouldn't have to hit Buffy back to reality again. For one thing he hated hitting girls, vampires excluded, and for another Buffy's head was as hard as a rock.  
  
"Guys?" Willow squeaked. She was back to back with Oz and holding one stake to her chest while the other two weapons continued to hover. "What happened?"  
  
Xander snorted and moved closer to the duo, closing ranks. "We got Mastered."

"Yeah, ew.  Let's not." Buffy frowned.  She shook her head, sun bleached hair bouncing, and pointed with her stake at the master vampire that had nearly taken them. "You. French guy. What do you want, and this time, no tricks please."   
  
He continued to stare for a moment, motionless but for eyes could have been glowing, dark hair falling in loose curls.  It was as though he'd stepped right out of one of Giles' watcher journals. She stood her ground.  
  
"Perhaps, ma guerrière, we may start again? I am Jean-Claude, Master of St. Louis." He smiled, and it still made Buffy want to walk up to him and sit in his lap and let him brush her hair like Hank used to do. Thank god magic always went to crap around Xander. The vampire that did not, DID NOT, look in anyway like Angel tilted his head to the other vamp who was still staring at Xander as though he was the most interesting boy in the entire world.  An occasional glance went toward Willow and her floating weapons. "This is Asher, my second."  
  
Asher gave her a polite nod but still hadn't looked away from her Xander shaped friend.  Rude.  Buffy shifted her weight and considered the weight of her stake.  Goldie was watching Xander like he was puzzle he couldn't wait to solve, or particularly delicious piece of meat... thus the Demon Magnet strikes again.  
  
Evidently, Xander didn't like the attention and struck out in true Scooby fashion. "Well, nice to meet you. I'm Fred, the blonde that could smash you into paste is Daphne, our witch would be Velma, and that's Shaggy. We used to have a zebra-painted Mystery Machine but I think it got blown up."  
  
One of the wolves coughed and it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. The black haired, blue eyed vampire had an expression of utter confusion on his pristine features.  
  
Buffy blinked. They might get out of this without a fight after all!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of the Rough Translations:  
> Jeunes précieux : Precious young ones  
> Je ne sais pas qu'il est vous font, mais l'arrêt : I do not know what you are doing, but stop.  
> Vous êtes français, petite guerrière? : Are you French, little warrior?  
> Non : No  
> Vous parlez si bien, vos compagnons? : You speak well, do your companions?  
> Je fais. : I do.  
> Sont vous non fatigué, mes enfants? : Are you not tired, my children?  
> ma guerrière : My warrior


	3. An Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, "An Impasse" from JC's Point of View. He's a bit of a ruthless schemer here.

Jean-Claude did not usually like surprises. They tended to be of the life, or unlife in his case, threatening kind and often required him to revise his many plots and plans. However, after watching the television broadcast last night and with his pomme all but bursting from excitement this one had been of the pleasant sort. Katrina, the Master of Springfield would no doubt be throwing a tantrum when she realized just what she had let slip from her grasp.  
  
It had been no small challenge to track the four children and had it not been for the olfactory senses of his wolves near impossible. They were skilled, seedlings of power and potential, and he wanted them. Finding out that they had dumped their get-away car in the Mississippi and crossed into his land had been the most pleasant news he had received in some time.   
  
Even sweeter, politics wise Katrina could do nothing. Government safehouses were considered neutral territory, no one wanted to risk what the publicity associated with such places would bring, and as such she would never have been able to detect the children if they had stayed out of Springfield City proper. She had not laid any claim to them while they were in her territory. They were free for the taking.   
  
Approaching their small and well hidden encampment Jean-Claude felt a sense of deja-vu: a memory of the time he had been alive and forced to accompany the young lord on a hawking expedition.  
  
"...think we can swing by a Wal-Mart sometime soon?" Attuned undead ears picked up the quiet tones of the young wolf that had been the reason behind the chaos. Using his talent Jean-Claude could detect all the wolves he'd brought with him as well as the burning energy that was the young pup. Amazing. He would be strong when he was grown; possibly stronger than Richard. Perhaps he could be groomed to take over for his loup?  A bloodless abdication was nearly unheard of among the wolves, but Richard had never wanted the position to begin with. The Ulfric had become so because Jean-Claude required it to cement his power base.  
  
Though Richard would never realize the truth if the vampire had anything to do about it.  
  
"...heads up!" The small blonde called and Jean-Claude watched as she reflexively dropped her crossbow, a true work of craftsmanship, and reached for a stake. Interesting.  
  
"You need not be frightened, mes enfants." He had no intention of harming them, not really. He needed them whole if he was to use them. Fear did not work well with children.  The self preservation instincts were simply not as acute as in grown adults and one could never truly predict how they would react. Watching these youths pull off a truly magnificent escapade told the Master of the City that they were willing to risk themselves for their friend.  Risk everything.   
  
It was admirable and foolish and only made him want them more. The strength of will behind that devotion... properly molded... and under his control...  
  
"Holy crap." Jean-Claude's attention diverted to the young man standing with the golden maiden. The comment almost made him smile but for the erratic energy contained within the boy. Clearly, no one had ever taught these children how to Shield, and the boy was giving off something that reminded him vaguely of his petite chou. Yet, he did not have the cold, dead echoes of strength that animators held. Just what were these children?  
  
"Xander!" The tiny waif of a girl hissed. She looked utterly ridiculous, barely four and a half feet tall, and standing there with a thick wooden stake as if to leap at the vampires.  
  
"...and I told you to stake his ass, but does anyone listen to me?" Once again the dark haired boy spoke, and Jean-Claude felt his interest grow. He needed to stay cautious, it would not due to underestimate these children, as the words were spoken with the bitter ambrosia of truth to them. They had killed his kind before. Looking at the callous' on their small hands and the choice of weaponry... they had not used the guns so many modern day hunters preferred when they did so.    
  
A chill went down his spine.  
  
Rising along with worry and fear was the soft crackle of magic. Jean-Claude's gaze drifted to the smallest of the children, only finger or two shorter than the wolf, the girl with the dark red hair. He could taste strawberries on his tongue.  
  
He reached out with his power toward the young wolf, calling to the beast that stared fixated from amber eyes. Fear was wafting off of all four them, but it was tempered by hard determination. Perhaps if he could gain the trust of one the rest would follow...  
  
He did not expect the guttural sounds that issued forth. It was no language he recognized, for it was indeed a language as the other boy responded in question, and neither could Asher comprehend the words. It sounded almost as if two animals were talking, or as if it were meant for the rough vocals of the half beast forms the stronger alpha shifters could take.   
  
His temoin was clearly intrigued by the by play. Well, Jean-Claude's voice could do more than incite lust. His aurder was, at its core, about love. If and when Anita found out he had used it on these children she'd throw a fit, but she was always upset about something, and he needed them to trust him. Needed to get them away from the borders and safely stashed at his Circus.  
  
"Jeunes précieux, you have no need to worry for your safety. It seems, by happy coincidence, you have wandered into my territory, and as Master of the City I would like to offer haven to you, and your _wolf_." He rolled the last bit, let it sink in and stir those emotions within them. Safety. No need to run. Just put down the stakes and come to me...   
  
The wolf whined. He was caught in Jean-Claude's power, but the sound drew the small fighter from him. Her resistance was not unlike that of an animator, but animators could be overcome.  
  
"Je ne sais pas qu'il est vous font, mais l'arrêt!" Her crossbow was expertly leveled at Asher's chest, though her eyes concentrated on Jean-Claude's own burning blue ones. It was a mistake on her part, though Jean-Claude had not heard the crisp tones of the French Court in nearly three hundred years...  
  
"Vous êtes français, petite guerrière?" She was absolutely laughable. Her hair fell around baby-fat cheeks in messy sweat-stained strands. She wore a simple, dirty black tee under a too large leather jacket and a brown corduroy skirt with run covered black. Her shoes were in just as poor a condition as the rest of her. Large, hazel eyes swirled with color and were it not for the obvious experience with which she held her weapons he would have thought her nothing more than common runaway, a street urchin.  
  
"Non."  
  
So then where did she pick up those inflections on her speech? They were damnably intriguing, these children. The wolf, too, spoke Jean-Claude's mother tongue, though his held a slightly more modern flavor which was yet another pleasant surprise. With curiosity satiated for the moment, it was time to get to business. Enchant the children and get them moved to a more secure location. "Sont vous non fatigué, mes enfants?"   
  
He watched them as his power wove affection and peace like Arachne at her loom. Soothingly. Carefully. Temptingly. The warrior maiden's aim drifted, her crossbow aimed safely into the dirt. Her stake arm relaxed as pure want peeked from her eyes. Want and fear. She desired someone to take care of her, wanted him to soothe her aches and dry her tears. But she didn't trust it. Not entirely. She'd been betrayed before. She was strong, but she hadn't always been. He could see it.  So much like sweet Anita...  
  
The witch's magic guttered as she found herself wrapped in his own. She looked into his eyes and Jean-Claude saw that same desire which burned within the blonde girl. Fear of abandonment. Fear that it wasn't real. Fear that he would take her friends and leave her alone, just as others had done. Her clothing was just as worn as those of her friends, her dress frayed in places and her shoes two sizes too big. She clung to the wolf though she didn't know why. Her magic crackled against his, confused.  
  
The pup was nearly his. Richard would not approve but he would understand. He wanted to see these children safe and if it took a little power play to get them there he would grumble but assent to the necessity. And yet as young as he was the pup still fought, if only subconsciously. Jean-Claude wondered just how strong he would be when grown. How beautiful and terrifying would this little wolf be?  
  
There was a sudden spike of heat, and Jean-Claude whipped his attentions from the little witch and her beast to the other boy. He was shaking and his eyes snapped open revealing the greenish reflective surfaces of a night hunter. How?  He was no shapeshifter.  He did not feel or smell as one did, so what kind of creature was he?  
  
What were they all?  
  
At the boy's statement Jean-Claude's wolves tensed, preparing to overcome and knock him out, but then he did the unexpected.   
  
He attacked his own companion, and the blonde warrior was ripped from Jean-Claude's grasp taking the other two with her.   
  
Fascinating. Even more intriguing was the pulse of fruit-scented magic that threaded over to an abandoned pack and withdrew another pair of weapons. The witch was stronger than she should be at such an age, though he could see the effort was taxing her, but not enough to give it up. Her fear and worry fed into the magic strengthening it. As the children shifted positions the vampire truly saw them for what they were.  
  
A team, bonded not by childhood frivolity, but by blood and battle. Young though they may be but dangerous. Very dangerous.   
  
But still young, still children, and oh so malleable with the right influences.  A light touch would be needed.  A guiding hand, not a taskmaster. "Perhaps, ma guerrière, we may start again? I am Jean-Claude, Master of St. Louis... this is Asher, my second."  
  
Jean-Claude had no idea how to take the small dark haired boy's response. It was not truth, but not exactly a lie. There was meaning laced within his words and the vampire was no stranger to sarcasm. But he still didn't get it. He rapped Jason lightly with his power. His pomme evidently read into the names, and would explain it once they had dealt with this. For now though... how to proceed?  
  
"You have our thanks." Jamil stepped forward, lips quirked in amusement as he watched the young boy that had somehow silently been elected as the children's spokesperson. Everyone in the small clearing had noticed the subtle movements and shift of power that pushed the 'Fred' into the Alpha position. Those experienced in the dominance game recognized such things easily. "Several lycanthropes were freed during your get away, among other shifters."  
  
The boy slouched and held his palm open. The floating blade drifted to rest handle first in it. "Um... you're welcome?"   
  
The little witch sniffed and pulled at one of her braids. "They had Oz." There was so much more placed in those three words than should have been possible.


	4. Huckleberry, Cherry, or Lime

Anita needed a coffee. Also, a back rub. Preferably being done by a very handsome yet slightly feminine, muscular male in a speedo. On second thought, as long as she was fantasizing she might as well go all the way: Coffee, a back rub, and two or three sexy guys with or without speedos. She was not feeling picky or particularly virtuous at the moment.   
  
Her car door slammed and she trudged up the steps to RPIT headquarters. "Storr." She greeted tiredly and with the beginnings of anger smoldering in her eyes. Their personal relations had done nothing but sour since she came out about Jean-Claude, and their professional relationship wasn't much better.  He thought she was spending too much time in the company of bloodsuckers and animals. Turning into a junkie.  Compromised.  
  
She thought he needed to get his nose out of her business before she cut it off.  
  
"Blake." The head of the Regional Preternatural Investigation Taskforce nodded coolly. "I'm surprised you were able to grace us with your presence at all this evening. Not booked by your Vamp Daddy?"  
  
"He had other engagements." Anita responded to the barb with one of her own. "How is your son doing?"  
  
From the corner of her eye she saw Zebrowski, dressed haphazardly which was the usual for this time of night, move his hand as if marking an invisible scoreboard. Point to Anita. The Executioner tucked her ever-errant hair out of her eyes and stared for a moment at the bright white lights of the building. It was way to early, or late depending on your outlook, to deal with this.   
  
Sargent Storr steamed for a moment before turning. Around him underlings burst into motion fearing his wrath. As Anita followed him to a private room she noticed there seemed to be more personnel around than usual. "There a party and I wasn't invited?"  
  
"If only we were so lucky." He snapped out, shutting the door just after Zebrowski and Tammy Reynolds slipped in. "No, this is a result of Illinois' _finest_ dropping the ball and handing us the biggest mess since... shit. I don't know. This is a class in and of itself."  
  
As Storr went to his desk and began forcefully arranging files with a deliberation that could only be a coping mechanism, Zebrowski stepped up with a smile and a cup of blessed java. He might have been annoying as heck the man was a saint. She took the cup, inhaled the heavenly aroma of the beans, and drained half in one gulp. "I'm guessing this is about the St. Peters thing?"  
  
"Thing?" Storr growled menacingly enough to receive any shifter's approval. "You could say that. I'll admit I don't particularly like the furry impaired, but this is... this is... we get too little funding as it is. Now they expect us to hunt down over fifty lycanthropes? There isn't a law about leaving a safehouse, it is difficult, yes, but not technically against the rules. And..." he slid a manila folder over to her.  
  
The petite woman set her mug on the table and opened the folder, suddenly glad she had done so or her caffeinated ambrosia would be all over the floor. "God..."  
  
Tammy, witch on call for RPIT, frowned and closed her eyes. "God had nothing to do with that."  
  
"I wouldn't have done this to a dog, let alone a person." Anita growled herself and felt that constant cauldron of rage inside begin to boil. She shuffled through the images and files, some of which looked like they'd been hastily faxed, before snapping the folder shut and tucking it under her arm. Her question was unspoken.  
  
Zebrowski answered it. "One of the reporters managed to get into the building during shortly after the breakout, before they got things back under control, crazy fucker. We kinda need your opinion on what to do about it."  
  
"What do you mean? Press fucking charges."  
  
"Oh, that's already started. St. Peters," Zebrowski got a pinched look on his face as if he couldn't understand how such a horrible place could have that name. "Is going to be getting an Official Inquiry. FBI have already been called in. Our problem is that besides the round up, which has been going terrible by-the-by, the fact remains that a government sanctioned facility with supposedly state-of-the-art security was successfully assaulted." He smiled. "Their parents must be proud."  
  
"I don't know what to tell you. I've never even knew these kids existed until Ronnie woke me at six in the morning yelling at me to turn on the T.V." She paused. "You aren't planning to arrest them?! They've got to be, what, nine? Ten? Do you know what would happen to a ten-year-old in juvie?"  
  
Storr rubbed his temples. "I don't want to arrest them, Anita. But I need to do something. Since this involves lycanthropes it got shoved onto our plate, and the press is having a fucking epilepsy attack over it."  
  
Tammy sighed. "I still say we should forward it to National level. We are a Tri-State group, shifters are fast, even drugged given the right incentive they could make it to California before the week is out. Heck, they've got enough incentive to make it to Mexico."  
  
"Probably head for Canada." Zebrowski commented. "Lots of trees there."  
  
Tammy looked at him, eyes unreadable. "And anyway, I did an extensive check of the grounds. There was no magic used, a magic-user perhaps, but no magic was involved in the operation. The ONLY thing preternatural about this case is the escapees, which means this shouldn't be our problem!"  
  
"Why am I even here?" Anita asked coldly. She wanted to be out there hunting down... Walsh, was it? Yes. Some doctor of psychology trying to figure out how the 'beast' worked. Why hadn't she just tried asking? Anita was both Lupa and Bolverk. Protecting her pack, taking out the trash, was literally her job description...  
  
Storr looked up at her, and for a moment it was like they'd gone back in time three years. Gone was the irritation and anger, the mutual dislike, and when he looked at her there was a softness. "Blake, I need you to talk to your friends. Find out what's going on within the community. I need to know if I need to worry about these shifters. Are they going to go rogue? Freedom after so long... it does weird things to people.  
  
"And if you can," he continued with an unsettling slump to his broad shoulders. "If you can, find those kids. We're bogged down in this mess right now, but desperation can do weird things to people, too."  
  
That ever present rage within her cooled slightly. She looked into eyes that were just as tired as her own and nodded while offering a tiny, tentative smile. It made her look years younger. "Alright, Dolph."  
  


* * *

  
Willow honestly didn't know how they got into these situations. All they wanted was to get Oz out of that disguised concentration camp, she shivered at the thought, and disappear into the streams of humanity. They even had a plan! And it was a good plan! It had survived first contact with the enemy, too! All they should have been worrying about was laying low for a month or so before filtering back into society and figuring out a way to take care of themselves that didn't include breaking-and-entering. Buffy spent a few months supporting herself in LA, but no one in their right mind was going to hire a couple of kids.   
  
And kids they had become. Kids they would continue to be no matter how self sufficient they were. It was terribly terribly irksome.  
  
Yet despite everything the universe just had to pile on the difficulties with vamps popping out of the woodwork. With a little deception and skill Willow was fairly sure even in her miniaturized form she could take a fledgling. But a Master? With all the bonus' that entailed? If she were wearing boots she'd be shaking in them.  
  
Which brought her to why they were riding in a car with not-Oz werewolves. Hey, she thought, that would make a good movie title. Riding in Cars with Werewolves. "Bad, bad Willow. Stop thinking unhelpful thoughts." She muttered to herself as Oz squirmed beside her and she leaned closer. Gods, she was tired. And hungry. But mostly tired. Willows, especially child sized Willows, were not made for staying up twenty-four hours and hiking through rough terrain.  
  
She'd never missed the nice paved Sunnydale streets so much in her life. One thing the Hellmouth had going for it: pot-holes never lasted more than a day before meeting their end by construction crew.  
  
"It'll be okay." Oz whispered into her hair. "It's not like they're demons... and even if they were..."  
  
Right. They could take demons. They took the two-faced Mayor, blew him to Kingdom Come, they could handle this. She yawned. They could handle it in the morning.  
  
"Why don't you get some sleep, it's not like we plan on eating you." One of the wolves said with a drawl. He acted like he wasn't interested in them but Willow doubted that. She didn't know where the vampires went after they agreed to get in the cars -and didn't every parent warn their children about getting in the vehicles with strangers?- but she couldn't bring herself to care.  
  
Xander was just as tired as she was, but he had experience staying up late and was riding a high of annoyance, fear, and pure adrenaline that was almost as good as caffeine for an energy boost. He eyed the wolf that had spoken. "A likely story. For all we know, you could be waiting to get us to your ovens to bake us into kiddy-shaped pies."  
  
"Mmmm." Buffy drooled from her spot across from them. She was still holding her crossbow. No amount of sweet talk would make her give it up, though she did agree to put away the stake. They all did, and Willow hadn't missed the fact that their packs had been stowed in the other car. "Pie."  
  
"Lemon meringue." Willow whispered, though everyone within the vehicle could pick it up.  
  
"Chocolate moose." Xander called as his attention shifted to her. She gave him a shaky smile and sighed. Oz was like a hot water bottle against her body and she just wanted to drift away and forget all this stuff ever happened and that they were back on the Hellmouth, fighting revenants and whatever else was threatening the graduating class.  It was so odd having mundane things to worry about instead of apocalypses.  
  
"Apple cobbler." Oz muttered. Sweet love'n on toast, she didn't even want to think of the slop he'd probably been forced to eat whilst they'd been preparing for Operation: Red Riding Hood. And that stupid pretty vampire played on their worry about their friend. See this carrot; don't you want to be sure your friend is okay? Just ignore the small army of a stick that has you surrounded. Right. She'd had enough of the mind games with Angelus. What kind of sick, petty Master Vampyre kills someone's pet fish?   
  
They'd go along and get Oz checked out by this supposed shifter doctor in case there was something his wolf healing couldn't handle. Willow would not put it past those government stooges to put some kind of tracking chip in her boyfriend. She was sooo sicking PETA on their asses.   
  
Her eyes began to drift shut and she snapped them open with a muttered, "Strawberry Eclairs, on the beach."  
  
Buffy tilted her head. Anywhere-But-Here was as good a distraction as any from the three wolves occupying the sedan with them. "Rice pudding, topped with liberal amounts of cinnamon, on a bearskin rug by a fire."   
  
Ah. Willow knew exactly what room Buffy was thinking of. Stupid pretty vampire bringing up painful memories.   
  
"Amy Yipp. At the water-slide park. With Dipp'n Dotts." Xander nodded and Buffy sighed in exasperation.   
  
"You never change!"  
  
"Hey! I can't help it if I know what I like." Xander snarked. "And I did add the ice cream."  
  
Oz laughed quietly, his chest shaking with the action and forcing her to shift her grip. "Oh, Wills." He chuckled. "What I wouldn't give for a hummus cannon."  
  
She rested her head on his chest. "They were all out of hummus."  
  


* * *

  
It felt like hours. Tiny Buffies, even tiny Slayer Buffies, had their limits. She was fast approaching hers. But there was no way in all the Hell Dimensions, and she wasn't completely sure they weren't in one, that she was letting her guard down with unknown vampires hanging about. Especially with the way that one had been eying her friends. The weres seemed nice enough but she'd only just met them.  
  
And since when did werewolves answer to vampires anyway? When Oz got infected and they took a quick refresher course on lycanthrope lore everything pointed toward them not getting along. What the what now?  
  
Buffy sat up in her seat as the car rumbled to a stop. One step at a time. That was the ticket. First get Oz looked at, enjoy a nice hot shower, perhaps nap if feasible, then sneak away like the sneaky Scoobies that they were. It was doable.   
  
And if not, she would MAKE it doable. She was The Slayer. She was the thing that made demons quiver in fear and vampires explode into itty bitty bits. It didn't matter that she was even shorter than she had been! Size matters not!  
  
Oh. Gods. She was channeling Xander. She had to be beyond exhaustion.  
  
"Coming, Daphne?" One of the wolves called softly from where he was holding open the door of the car and Buffy snapped back into the here-and-now. She clambered off the seat and out into the night wondering why he called her Daphne until she remembered that they had yet to give their real names. Whatever. Her lips quirked as she adjusted her grip and peered around. Tiny balls of energy zinged around her senses telling her more shifters were about but they felt... different. Different flavors.  
  
She breathed deep and let her psyche do the work. There was a connection. She _felt_ a connection. "Rats."  
  
Their so called escorts stared at her.   
  
She led the way into the hospital, one of the rats tried to take her crossbow stating that the clinic was a violence free area on pain of death. She stared at him. Tell me another one, Speedy. "Rule number three," she stated in deadpan. "Never surrender your weapon."  
  
The wolf with the dreadlocks was back. He must have been in the other car.

"What's rule number one?" He asked curiously as they descended into the inferno. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. She felt herself smile at the memory. Giles would be proud. She actually remembered something from her literature class.  
  
Was it just her or were all the people in this dimension freakishly tall? It was Xander who answered the stupidly large werewolf's question. "Don't let anyone die for you." He said it with a smirk as the door shut behind them with a click.   
  
None of the weres had anything to say to that.  
  


* * *

  
Cherry smiled at the two girls with what should have been a bright and disarming grin. After a quick whispered conference it was decided that she would check out the two young girls, as she was a fully trained and qualified nurse and it was about time her skills got some use, while Dr. Lillian used her motherly air and looked at the boys. They were so cute! They were adorable! And they looked like they were about to fall on their faces.  
  
She patted the examination table. "Why don't you hop up here, girls." She snapped on some gloves and reached for a syringe. Not only was it Standard Operating Procedure in the lycanthrope clinic for new arrivals, but Jean-Claude wanted to know exactly what these kids were. Human, shifter, or other? "If you'll roll up your sleeves I can get a blood sample, no need... to... fuss..."  
  
The little blonde was staring at the needle. Her man's jacket had been abandoned in the spare seat with her crossbow resting on top within easy reach. But she wasn't going for it. She was staring at the needle, eyes a sharp liquid brown and screaming soundlessly. "...Buffy?" The red head asked in a whisper so low even Cherry's enhanced ears barely picked it up.  
  
At her voice the blonde seemed to snap back, rapidly blinking her eyes and clenching her hands into fists. "You're just going to take a little blood, right? Not, not put anything in. Right?"  
  
Cherry's instincts, and not the leopard ones, told her something was very wrong about that statement. Examining the two girls again she had to revise her opinion. They were not cute. They were so many things but cute was not one of them. She stepped up to the blonde and gently took her arm while swabbing an area clean. It needed it, too. Both girls still had the faint smell of river-water clinging to them. "No, sweetie. I'm not going to put anything in." The needle found a vein and with her strong pulse and the syringe quickly filled up. Turning back to the counter she tossed the needle in the hazardous materials disposal and quickly labeled the vial.   
  
She had grabbed a band-aid from a small box next to the cotton-balls but when she looked at that skinny, sun tanned arm she couldn't find any evidence of the blood that had just been drawn. Huh.   
  
The blonde's eyes were back to that neutral hazel.  
  
"Okay. Well. Please take off your shirt."   
  
Hazel eyes turned a suspicious brown-green. "Why?"  
  
"I need to see what you look like to determine base comparisons." Confusion filled the tiny body. The red head yawned. With a final sigh the little girl grabbed the bottom of her shirt and lifted upward. Cherry recognized a holster when she saw one, Anita had enough of them, but this one looked cobbled together from various materials.   
  
It would have been one awesome life sciences project.  
  
Then the little girl hopped down and began removing her shoes and panty hose. Cherry figured she'd done it in case it would have been requested later. She then turned, wearing only her panties and skirt, and climbed back onto the paper lined table. Her friend shrugged and began undressing as well.   
  
The wereleopard went into nurse mode. With her clipboard in one hand she began taking notes, and she barely controlled the shaking that threatened to break through her calm. There was a bite on the blonde's neck, actually, there were two. Nearly overlapping the first was what appeared to be the distinctive twin punctures of a willful feeding the other scars ragged as if the attacker was only seconds away from tearing her throat out but decided against it. They looked old. How old was she when she got them? Five, six, seven? With what appeared to be shifter healing it had to be.   
  
Both of the girls had scars littering their bodies.   
  
There were faint burn marks near their legs. She wouldn't have noticed them if not for her lycanthrope enhanced sight and given a few years they would likely fade to nothing but tiny stretches of extra-smooth skin. "What happened?" It was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Her senses were telling her more than she wanted to know.  Her mind was dragging up memories she'd thought buried as her body ached in sympathy.  
  
She wanted to break into tears.  
  
It was the red head that asked tiredly. "What?"  
  
"You have burns..."  
  
"Oh... that... you know how it is... people get scared, think witchcraft is bad..." She gestured absently with her hand and Cherry's eyes threatened to pop out of her head. Her pencil snapped in her hands. "But it's okay." The little red head continued. "Everything turned out okay. It was a demon behind the craziness anyway. It's dead now, no need to worry."  
  
Cherry swore her heart stopped for a moment. She wasn't the best at it, but she couldn't detect any of the signs of falsehood. The blonde nurse took a deep, calming breath. Her eyes drifted to the wickedly curved knife that sat in the home-made holster with what appeared to be an extremely narrow and pointed stake and what might have been a toy squirt gun but it was wrapped so completely in duck tape she couldn't be sure.   
  
She took measured steps back to the supply counter and prepared to take blood from the little red head. "Okay then. Well. I've got almost everything I need." When she turned back the blonde had already re-dressed and the witch was stumbling behind her trying to pull a dark green sun dress over her head. When she finished Cherry swabbed her arm and stuck the needle in.  
  
Cherry was less than a beta. She wasn't strong at all. She frightened easily. And yet thinking over everything she'd written down Cherry wanted to run outside and start a fight. She wanted to find whoever hurt these kids and devour their intestines.  She wanted to show the world just how dangerous even the lowest of therithropes could be.  
  
Surely, Zane would help. He was good at finding things. He had, after all, found them Anita.  
  


* * *

  
Oz hadn't wanted to be separated from the girls. They'd just gotten back together after a little less than a month apart, and he'd been in that freakishly cold place for all that time, but he couldn't fault the logic. As much as he loved his Willow-Witch he didn't have any enthusiasm for ogling her currently flat chest and he was willing to bet Buffy would hit him. Hard.  
  
She was the only girl he knew that could knock him cold in one hit without even trying.   
  
So he and Xander got shuttled off with the nice lady with the graying hair that reminded him of his Aunt Lillith. And, surprise surprise, her name was Lillian.   
  
Yes, there was a God, and he had a shitty sense of humor.  
  
The rat lycanthrope gestured to the examination bed as she made a few notations on her clipboard. "So you're who we have to thank for the sudden influx of shifters?" She said it in a teasing way. "I've been quite busy because of you."  
  
At the doctor's look and quirked eyebrow Oz sighed. It's okay, he had to remind himself, she is not going to pump you full of drugs and tell you to relax. She is a shifter too. It would be hypocritical. Actually, now that he thought about it... "Have you gotten a wolf named Jacob in?"  
  
She looked him over and set down her clipboard. "I believe so. May I ask why?"   
  
Oz shrugged. "He was down the hall from me." The young werewolf gave a little smile. "I told him my friends would get us out. He didn't believe me."  
  
Xander grinned.  
  
Lillian gave a quick nod and leaned back. "Strip."  
  
Oz was a little surprised by Xander's eyes widening. "What? Why?" The brunette leaned away from the Doctor and stared at her like she was an alien from another planet. Oz frowned. That wasn't usual Xander behavior. He usually handled odd requests better than that. He was very good at hitting the ground running, so to speak.  
  
"Physical." Oz said as he touched the other boy's arm. "She needs to see. We don't have any records for her to go off of."  
  
"Huh?" Xander blinked, processed, and blushed. "Oh. Sorry about that, I guess I'm just a little sleepy. I had to drag your butt around all day." He shook himself and slipped off a button-up sized for a grown man before reaching for the bottom of his tee. As he was pulling it off, muffled though it was, sensitive lycanthrope hearing caught a mumbled "...not like doctors make a practice of throwing you out on your naked butt after they're done with you... not like certain psychotic unmentionables..."  
  
Oz pursed his lips and snuck a peek at the older woman.  With her eyes narrowed and lips pursed she looked even more like his aunt. It was starting to creep him out. Her gaze darted over to him and she arched an eyebrow as if to say: Well, what about you?  
  
The musician sighed and got to work. He was still wearing the bottoms that the... place... issued him but the rest of the scoobs had found him a nice dark Tee-Shirt with which to blend into the shadows with. They had been planning to sneak around for a while and dark clothing had been a must for the break out. The only real color Willow had worn, which was a shock as he was used to his witch bringing a veritable rainbow with her everywhere she went, had been some embroidered flowers on her brown knit jacket.  
  
But the little wolf-headed PEZ dispenser she'd slipped into his pocket while he had been unconscious made him all gooey inside.   
  
"You were shot."  
  
Oz looked up from his musing into the cold, angry eyes of the doctor. But he didn't think that anger was directed at him. He shrugged. "Assassins."  
  
"You have assassins after you?!" Oh, she was pissed. She was very good at controlling it but, well, the nose knows.  
  
"Not anymore." Xander piped up with a shrug and a yawn. Oz fought the urge to mimic him, and failed. "We killed them all."   
  
The rat doctor stared at them both and Oz could imagine her tail slashing through the air in a frenzy. "I see." She continued to look them over, asked them do those things that Oz really had no clue what the purpose was but seemed like all physicians asked you to do during the physical. Then they were weighed and their height measured.   
  
Finally she took blood samples and let them get dressed. She turned to him and knelt down so that she was at his level. "I need you to remember, while you were in the safehouse," and that was the worst name for those places ever, Oz thought. "Did they do any surgery? Maybe something with silver scalpels to, ah, monitor your health?"  
  
She was trying to be delicate. Obviously, she was no pediatrician. Didn't bother an Osbourne, though. Very little could upset the cultivated Osbourne serenity. "No. They were busy, I was scheduled to go under next week."  
  
She breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, that's something. Still, I'd like to see you when you are a bit more rested and we'll check. Just in case."   
  
The beast inside him was watching everything. It was a constant presence now, always ready to make its move if Oz or the pack was threatened. It was different than the wolves of this dimension, but for all that it was very similar. It felt no deception from the Rat. After living on the Hellmouth Oz knew the value in being safe rather than sorry. Rule number four: Never issue verbal invitations.  
  
"Okay." She smiled and he looked around the office with a small frown. "You got it wrong."  
  
"I'm sorry?" Her confusion was laced with something he couldn't quite identify.   
  
Xander had slipped his stake into its spot in his boots and looked up with a frown of his own. "This is a Doctor's office, right?" She nodded with an amused expression. "So where are the lollipops?"  
  
"Lollipops?"  
  
"Uh, Yeah. Lollipops. You know, sweeter than candy on a stick? We got our check up, now we get our lollipops!"  
  
Oz felt his frown deepen. What kind of medical facility was this? No lollipops? Bummer.


	5. To Hell In A Handbasket

Throughout her time in Sunnydale Buffy learned several things. Aside from Zoos being a place of crazy hi-jinx and high school being a death trap, the natural habitats of vampires were vital to her job as The Slayer. Fledges hung out around cemeteries before they decided what they wanted to do with their unlife. After that they either moved into an abandoned warehouse, or found a nice crypt and or cave to spend their days. As it turned out even in a brand new, shiny dimension these fundamental facts of the undead held true.  
  
Evidently they held true to the Nth power as the Master of the City, and can we say pretentious much, scored both. He lived in a warehouse with a cave system underneath.   
  
Buffy descended the last step with a grunt, her crossbow balanced precariously in her left hand, and looked around unhappily. If she wasn't so cranky and annoyed she might have been impressed. As it was all the young slayer could think was that this underground maze was going to be the biggest pain to navigate when they made their inevitable escape.  
  
Oz's nose had better be up to snuff, or they were going to be having some serious issues.   
  
Xander dropped down beside her with a soft curse. Someone needed to have a sit down with the architect of this place. "Did you see the signs?" He said with a panic laced pant as he fought to catch his breath. "Did you see the clowns? They had _fangs._ Clowns are bad enough without fangs." He shivered, and Buffy wasn't sure if it was from disgust, fear, or exhaustion.  
  
She glanced at the strange wolf that was carrying Willow with pressed lips. Their witchy friend had passed out on the drive over, just leaned against Oz conking out like a light, and had to be carried. Neither Oz nor Xander were up for the job as they were having enough difficulty with the stairs from hell. Buffy might have managed, but she wasn't going to risk having her hands full of Willow if and when everything went crazy.   
  
And if the guy did anything, tried anything, she was planting her crossbow bolt in his eye. Tired as she was Buffy was willing to bet that at close range she wouldn't miss and he wouldn't catch it. His hands were too full of sleeping Willow.  
  
"They've prepared some rooms for you. One for the girls and-" A rat shifter began to say as she walked around the corner before Buffy cut her off.   
  
"No." The blonde slayer grunted out and blinked. The lighting sucked in this place. Seriously. Buffy shook her head and leaned against a stone wall as Xander stepped up and stared at the freakishly tall woman. Everyone in this world was too tall. It wasn't fair!  
  
"We'll share a room. All of us." Xander explained. It was said in a light tone but at the same time it didn't permit arguing.   At least that's what it would have been if he was two feet taller and had completed puberty. The Amazonian rodent smiled softly as she looked at them, eyes lingering on the slumbering Willow in the wolf's arms, before settling on Xander. That's right, thought Buffy, keep your attention on Xander. I'm not worth your attention.  
  
At least until I drive my knife between your ribs.  
  
Buffy yawned as the rat woman began talking, though it was walking and talking. "The beds are rather small, I'm sure you'll be much more comfortable in separate rooms. Plenty of space to spread out."  
  
Divide and conquer. Uh huh. Like it wasn't so totally obvious. Buffy didn't have a clue why the vampire and his army of furries wanted a bunch of tiny terrorists but she was willing to bet it wasn't out of any altruistic motive.   
  
How many vampires out there were cursed by gypsies? Honestly?  
  
Xander read her stance from the corner of his eye. "No thanks." He grinned, hand fluttering by his pant leg and the knife hidden beneath. Buffy was rather exasperated but thankful that they hadn't bothered searching them. It probably would have sent the wrong message. "We're perfectly happy to stay together."  
  
The woman pursed her lips. "I suppose, if that's what you'd prefer..." She wasn't happy, but she clearly didn't want to make a big deal about it. Not while they were all walking on eggshells and Buffy was in trigger-happy mode. They followed her, four scoobies and three werewolves and second rat that they had picked up from the clinic, down the twisty corridors. Every now and then there was a tiny alcove with some random bit of art.   
  
It was like someone took a dungeon and tried to make it homey. They failed. Maybe that had been the intention; Buffy didn't know. Her mother would have had this place bright and happy in two seconds flat. Replace that statue, nix that painting, bring in some thicker curtains...  
  
Buffy shivered as cold crept in on her and she ached inside at the thought of her mother. What was Joyce Summers doing right now? Was she frantically looking for her daughter? Had she called the police? Giles? Was she making a pot of cocoa just in case Buffy made it home?  
  
Probably. That was the sort of thing she would do. Just like she would occasionally hunt Buffy down during her patrols only to press a thermos of the warm, sweet drink into her hands. Then there would be the small zip-loc of miniature marshmallows in her mother's pocket just in case her slayer was in the mood for them.  
  
Buffy blinked rapidly. She was not going to cry, she was NOT. She was the Slayer. She was strong. She had to be strong. For her friends. For herself.  
  
"Here we are." The rat woman's voice was soft and gentle as she held open a thick wooden door.  Like everything else, it was just slightly off when placed next to the rough raw stone of the wall.  Creepy.  Buffy pushed past their escort and examined the temporary quarters.   
  
"Nice." Oz commented as he watched the adult wolf set Willow on one of the beds. It had a soft baby-blue comforter and lots of fluffy pillows. There was lace. The room reminded her of her own, only there wasn't a dresser topped with stuffed animals by the door or a chest of weapons anywhere in sight.  
  
She gripped her crossbow harder as if it were a security blanket. Oz had shooed the other werewolf away, much to the adult's amusement if his smile was anything, and was unlacing Willows shoes and stripping off her socks.  
  
The witch's feet were tiny, and it amazed Buffy every time she saw them. She was still amazed even when she looked at her own reflection.   
  
The grown ups left the room. Xander pushed a chair, and it had to be expensive, an antique, under the door handle. They didn't doubt that it could easily be overcome but at least it would give them a bit more warning.   
  
Buffy allowed herself a smidgen of calm and checked out the only other door. It led to a good-sized black and white tiled bathroom. She set her crossbow on the sink counter and turned the tap. It was almost disappointing to see fresh, clear water come pouring out. With a name like Circus of the Damned she was expecting blood or some such. Shrugging it off Buffy scooped water with her hands and splashed her face. She eyed the bathtub longingly but decided against it.   
  
She wasn't sure she wouldn't fall asleep and drown, and once was enough of that particular activity. The blonde slayer walked back into the room and saw that the boys had managed to push the beds together. She slid the crossbow beneath the bed, in easy enough reach, and shrugged off Angel's jacket as she clambered onto the beds.   
  
Even if this place was damned, the mattress was like heaven.  
  
She was asleep before she even reached the pillows.  
  


* * *

  
Claudia walked away from the room of children with a feeling of apprehension. There was something very wrong with those kids. Dead on their feet, and yet they hadn't let down their guard.  And, unless she was greatly mistaken she had heard them pushing a chair against the door. She nodded to one of the security team who would be watching the room and continued on to the office. The sun was due to rise within an hour or so; the meeting should not last long.  
  
The wererat rubbed at the back of her neck. Motherly, she was not, yet those kids had pulled at some instinctual need to protect. To grab as many soft plushy quilts as she could find and plop those four tiny people down in the middle of them. As it was she already knew she'd be reworking shift schedules and putting a few more of her people on babysitting duty than initially planned.   
  
Of course if all went well the kids wouldn't notice. They were pretty independent, anyone with eyes could see that, and Jean-Claude didn't want to alienate them. As a great singer once said: Cling too tightly, gonna loose control. Vampires and their politics. Blah. Luckily, it wasn't her job to play heartstrings or navigate political waters. All she did was make sure nobody they cared about got caught in the crossfire. And occasionally instigate a spectacular car crash.   
  
Which reminded her that she needed to find out which one of those kids had been the wheelman. That had been art, and she wouldn't mind a protégé.   
  
Claudia knocked softly on the door and entered a small meeting chamber. She nodded to her King in greeting before addressing the Master of the City. "They've settled in the girl's room. I have Jackie and Dennis watching them." She was no expert at reading through Jean-Claude's many masks, and she didn't want to be. He was a far kinder and fair Master than the previous one, in fact he beat out the majority of Masters, but his calculations and schemes could make her head spin. "If that will be all?"  
  
He dismissed her. She gave another nod, part bow really, to Rafael before leaving. She wanted to get home and get a nap. The full moon had taken its usual toll on her and everyone on the security detail had been running on half-tanks trying to get a handle on the situation in some way or another. There was a bubble bath calling her name.  
  


* * *

  
"Mon loup." Jean-Claude greeted as Richard entered the room, his expression unreadable. The vampire could not understand the Ulfric. Ever since their formation of the triumvirate, and if he was honest even before, the Alpha's emotions and reactions were unpredictable things. He could read them, yes, but understand what they meant? That was another thing entirely. He could be, at times, as bad a child throwing a tantrum and his idealism was going to get them all in trouble if they weren't careful.  
  
What was worse, since Richard now carried Jean-Claude's marks, he was immune to nearly all of the vampire's tricks, and his own innate power bolstered that immunity. He wouldn't be doing anything unless he wished to.  Not anymore.  
  
"Jean-Claude." He spoke, though the constant dislike he carried for the Master vampire was softened by... amusement? The Wolf King offered a sincere smile to the King of the Rats. "Rafael. Louis." His eyes ghosted around the room, taking in the hangings that softened the stone walls, and claimed a seat by his Geri. "Asher."  
  
Three forces were represented in the room according to previously made treaties between their factions. Six bodies, heads and their seconds. Rats, Wolves, and Vampires.  It was no coincidence that the three groups also represented the more than half the supernatural population of the city.   
  
Rafael leaned back in his own comfortable leather seat and offered a polite smile. "Ulfric. I imagine you've had as busy a day as I?"  
  
"You could say that." Richard shrugged. No doubt he had been making calls to other Ulfrics trying to get the escaped shifters placed in packs close to their old homes, and he so did hate the Ulfric-to-Ulfric formalities, as well as trying to find wolves within his own pack to sponsor those that wished to remain in or around St. Louis. "The kids?"  
  
Jean-Claude wanted to sigh. Straight to the meat of the matter, his wolf. "Indeed. Mon pomme, and your Skoll, were most helpful in locating mon petits enfants perdus." Richard just looked at him as if to say: I'm taking about a gallon of salt with everything you say. Sometimes the vampire wondered just which of his servants, Richard or Anita, were more pessimistic.   
  
At least Anita was willing to put aside her misgivings, give him the benefit of the doubt, and try to get along. But it had taken him nearly two years to get her to that point. Well, he did have eternity to work on it assuming he was not killed... and necessity had made him a patient man.  
  
"Lillian has some disturbing news." Rafael spoke calmly but Jean-Claude could feel the gentle stirring of power that was the Rat King's beast. "Cherry, one of Anita's leopards who was examining the girls, has some suspicions of abuse, and that someone tried to burn them alive."  
  
Heat. Power. Anger. Richard's beast was staring out of his eyes though he gave nothing else away. How long would that control last?   
  
Rafael continued. "The child claimed it was because of a demon."  
  
Disbelief and fear leaked into the room. Even Jean-Claude felt his pulse, such as it was, slow down as he took in the information. "Surely she was telling tales? Children often mistake monsters from shadows and fear, misunderstanding of their situation..." Jean-Claude trailed off.  
  
"The leopard doubted this to be the case." Rafael paused as if in thought. "Though the girl also claimed that the demon was dead. She did not elaborate on how this occurred, and Cherry did not wish to interrogate her further, considering."  
  
Richard was stewing. He was a mass of hot anger in his chair. Sylvie, his second, was watching him with a wolf's eyes. Of all creatures in the world, killing a demon was most difficult and until then Jean-Claude thought impossible. Trapped, bound, and banished perhaps... but outright killed? The amount of faith such an action would require was unfathomable.   
  
"Where are they now?" Richard asked with barely constrained violence and something else. Something that was Alpha and yet not domineering. Jean-Claude tilted his head marginally in thought as he mused on the man that hadn't yet forgiven him for stealing his fiancée. Richard Zeeman, with his ideals and power, was an oddity among lycanthropes. His wish for a family by his own blood was not.   
  
"Safe, I assure you, mon ami," Amber eyes burned with silent accusation into the Master vampire. "The Rom's rat has seen to it."  
  
Thoughts not his own drifted into his mind: This is no place for a child. Any child.  
  
Be that as it may, his thoughts flickered back, where else would you have me place them?   
  
Asher spoke from where he stood in the shadow. "Is this not one of the safest places in the whole of the city? Well defended. With strong people. Or do you think that the Rodere and Lukoi are not capable?"  
  
Richard simmered at the implications. Several of his own wolves worked at the circus, and no one would say the rats did not know their business. Where wolves fought battles, the rats specialized in wars. If anyone could defend a fortress it would be them, and if the Circus of the Damned was anything it was a stronghold of the preternatural.  
  
But it was the preternatural themselves that worried the Wolf King.  
  
Rafael inclined his head but didn't appear to be happy with what he was going to say next. "The young wolf has been shot in the past, from the scarring it may be assumed it occurred before he became a lycanthrope, and he claimed it was assassins. From the way they spoke... it may have simply been exhaustion, but they seemed not to find such a thing unusual. As if it was perfectly normal to have someone trying to kill children."  
  
Jean-Claude wondered. Had someone else discovered these children, felt their potential, and decided they couldn't be risked? He had known of vampires to take such measures in the past, but how could they have read the young werewolf's power before he was infected?  A blood feud with a line of witches, perhaps?   
  
"There is also the matter of the boy." Asher continued after Rafael leaned back against the arm of his chair. Richard's energy settled into a warm apprehension as he watched the scarred vampire. Jean-Claude doubted his wolf would ever be entirely comfortable around them, not that Asher helped matters.   
  
"Tossed off your roll, or so I heard." His voice dropped closer to a growl. The Rat King was also upset about such measures being used on children, but his control, if not his raw power, matched if not surpassed that of the Ulfric.  
  
"Not without some difficulty." Jean-Claude replied.   
  
"He feels like Anita." Asher stated bluntly causing the Ulfric's emotions to roil in surprise and disbelief. "And also something else..."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Louis, the other Rat in the room, spoke up. "Lillian told me. He did not feel like a shifter but there is an... echo. A beast but not a beast? She'll know more when the blood tests come back. She also has some, suspicions."  
  
"It is the same as for the blonde girl." And the look on Rafael's face was anything but calm. It promised death. Swift. Painful. "The one that wouldn't give up her...toy."  
  
Jean-Claude had lived for hundreds of years, and yet he could still be surprised by the depravity some would sink to. Vampire Council excluded, of course.  
  
Richard's hot anger grew to rival that of The Executioner's. "What does Anita have to say of this?" He asked and there was no disguising the animal in his voice.  
  
Had the vampire been a hundred years younger, he might have sighed. He could feel dawn fast approaching, but it looked to be a long night.  
  


* * *

  
She was running. She couldn't stop running. Her breath came in quick gasps, her chest heaved with desperation and panic but she had to run. She couldn't stop. Couldn't slow down.   
  
It was behind her, massive and evil and unstoppable and when it caught her it would devour her. Her death would be nothing; she would be nothing more than the soft meaty tinder to fuel it the fires of its destructive birth. It would consume everything, everyone, and there would be nothing left but rubble and the smell of sulfur on the air.   
  
So she kept running. The muscles in her legs burned like never before but the hallway kept going. Row upon row of familiar lockers continued on forever and ever and ever so she ran into the endlessness with the evil only seconds behind her. Couldn't let it catch her. Couldn't let the chase end. Had to keep going and lead it to the trap! But where was the trap? Where was the end?  
  
There was a knife in her hand heavy and bloody and hot, demonic breath on her neck. It was so close. Too close.  
  
Whore. It whispered in a clicking hiss and lunged. Murderer.  
  
She burst through the doors and a deformed, scarred face greeted her pleasantly. "Oh, so glad you could make it!" The Master spoke with a cheerful grin. Buffy turned around but the terrifying menace was gone, the thing chasing her was nowhere to be found. Had it gone back? Was it eating her friends? "Would you care for some tea?"  
  
She approached the library table with the tea service as he poured her a cup. She took a sip. It was thick and syrupy going down her throat and left an aftertaste of copper filling her mouth. Blood. It was blood.  
  
"Now don't be like that," he scolded as she threw the china cup to the ground and his grin was filled with sharp teeth. The knife in her hand flickered, and there was a bone handle where metal once was.   
  
"Yeah, Lover. Don't be such a prude." Another voice sounded and she spun to face it.  
  
The word came to her and though she said it in a whisper it echoed like a gong. "Angel." She lifted her hand to touch his face, so beautiful, but he caught it and smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Angelus."  
  
"In the flesh!" He laughed at his own pun. The world began to shatter, cracks spider-webbing out into reality. "Love your dress."  
  
"What?" When she spoke her voice changed, became higher pitched and childish. She looked at her hands: tiny. She was swimming in the white formal gown and when she turned the Master lifted his blood filled tea cup in salute.   
  
There was a bomb ticking away on the table.  
  
She reached for it as memory came rushing back. She had to get it to the monster, the thing that would eat them all. She picked it up. It was tick-tick-ticking away as the world continued to crack around her. When she spun for the library entrance she tripped on the too big, too long dress and an abyss opened up separating her from the door.   
  
How was she going to get out? How was she going to save her friends? Her family? It would eat them all.  
  
The bomb exploded.  
  


* * *

  
Buffy woke gasping. Her heart was thudding in her chest and sweat beaded on her brow. Swallowing, she looked around. There was no Mayor, dead, no Master, dust, and Angelus was safely locked away by Angel's soul in an entirely different dimension. They were, temporarily, detained by some supernatural somethings but everything would be fine.   
  
On the scale of Scooby Crisis, their current situation barely rated a two.  
  
The blonde looked down at her friends. With a tired smile she inched further onto the bed and burrowed deeper into the scooby puppy pile until her head rested on Willow's chest and her leg was thrown over Xander's stomach while her hand claimed Oz's arm where it had wrapped around the red head. If she closed her eyes she could pretend the faint sound of water moving through pipes was a muted television and they were all laying around in the customary pile watching stupid B movies back in her living room. The sound of Willow's heartbeat and Oz's soft, steady breathing lulled her back to sleep.  
  
When she dreamed, there was nothing but her, an ice rink, and the figure eight. Infinity.  
  
Her dream-self generally ignored the man in the stands sitting with a cheese platter, commentating on the merits of cheddar.


	6. I'd Like to Buy a Vowel

His body went utterly still as he woke, though his pulse was pounding in his ears. The more he tapped into those memories of battlefields and wars, the larger the foothold the other gained, and what was once foreign and forgettable became more and more ingrained. It was not the soldier's best friend that had laid bleeding and dying on the ground while thatched buildings blazed around them, it was Xander's. It wasn't vague recollections of years of battle and missions, it was Xander's hard earned experience. Xander forced his body to relax and took a deep breath to slowly dissolve that well developed flight-or-fight reflex.   
  
No clowns, he thought, there are no knife-wielding clowns anywhere nearby.

Just don't think about the fact that you're under a circus, a breeding ground of all that is unholy, and everything is going to be hunky-dory.  
  
Xander sniffed, then gagged. He may be a male of the unhygienic persuasion but even he could tell a bath was needed, stat. Xander extracted himself from the tangle of limbs and slid off the bed to tip-toe to the bathroom. He didn't want to wake his friends if he could help it. God knows they all needed the rest.  
  
The bathroom door shut with a soft click and he stared into the mirror over the sink. Haunted brown eyes stared back. "We are so screwed." Maybe he should have gone over the rescue Oz plan further, figured out something that wouldn't attract so much attention, but he'd thought that the authorities would be so distracted by the mass break out the scoobies would fade into the background like yesterdays news. They were small, good at blending, they could have pulled it off!  Instead they just got the attention of another type of authority.

"Stupid vampires. Ruin everything." Xander mumbled petulantly as he turned the spigot of the bathtub to fill with warm water. His clothes were soon discarded on the ground as he rummaged under the sink for soaps and found bubble bath. "Ooh," he dragged out with narrowed eyes. "I see how it is."  
  
His suspicions didn't stop him from measuring out a few caps of the orange scented liquid and watching the water foam with a smile. How long since he had a bubble bath? A real one? Sometime before the disastrous clown birthday party, he was sure. His mother stopped buying the stuff in preference of as many cases of Budlight as she could get her hands on. His dad went for whiskey, his uncle the schnapps.  
  
Xander tested the water, snatched his hand back, and slowly lowered himself in. He let the bubbles drift around his body, concealing everything but his hands and head and he leaned back to soak in the water, and heard a soft tap at the door. "Uh, yeah?"  
  
"Hey." That cool composure was unmistakable at any age. Seemed that Oz was up.   
  
"Er, did you need to pee or something? Cuz I can get out, I mean, when nature calls and not in the big white orb in the sky kind of way..." The brunette fumbled while his hands played with the mountains of white around him. He half rose, water and suds making little tinkling noises as they splashed back into the water, but Oz declined the offer.  
  
"No." The wolf hadn't opened the door, unlocked as it was, and for that the brunette felt a small trickle of relief. Xander could imagine him on the other side, standing aloof and serene as usual, quiet eyes contemplating the room and scanning for any threats. Xander had not missed how much more touchy-feely and possessive the were had become after his and Willow's panic born indiscretion. It had been surprising, and humbling, to discover that the Osbourne didn't blame Willow or Xander. He blamed Spike, and had developed a vehement desire to dismember the vampire should they ever cross paths again. "I was just wondering... in the clinic. You freaked a bit there."   
  
A bit? Maybe just a bit. "I guess." He picked up a pile of white and blew at the bubbles dispassionately.  They exploded like meringue against the tile wall. "There was this crazy week back in sophomore year, everyone's nightmares were coming true... mine was being naked." Xander grimaced at the memory. "In front of the whole class. Willow said there was a special name for it..."  
  
"Gymnophobia?"  
  
"Yeah. That."  
  
Xander heard a soft grunt from the other side of the door. "I think I remember that." Oz spoke up with a tint of realization in his tone as if a light bulb just turned on. "There was this whole week when every last guitar string I had snapped, even the replacements I bought. Couldn't play at all. Finally I gave up and got a new guitar when the weekend rolled around."   
  
"That was your big fear?" He could imagine the werewolf shrugging noncommittally. Grumbling softly to himself Xander continued, "I guess it beats out coulrophobia."  
  
"So who was it?" Oz asked suddenly and there was something different in his tone. Something mean, dangerous, and hungry. Xander heard it and received a mental flash of gym class and dodgeball much to his confusion.  
  
"Who what now?"  
  
"Someone left you on your naked butt? I'm assuming we aren't talking about the week of weird, here."  
  
"...you heard that?" Oh. Gods. Where was the firing squad when he needed them? Why did he ever think he meant anything to that crazy woman? He did not want to go into the mess that was his love life right now... though it did make him wonder about Anya. Was she still running? She seemed so scared and vulnerable that last night, and he thought he saw in her eyes, something special, something... "It was nothing. Stupid. You know how Faith would talk about the two H's."  
  
And nothing more need be said, really. Hungry and horny, and she wasn't picky about who she used to sate those desires. Used. Such a good word for the slayer now doing such a wonderful impression of a vegetable. Xander honestly did not know how he felt about that.  
  
He'd rather not think about the whole thing. Period. Selective use of Sunnydale Syndrome? Yes please, and with a side order of fries.  
  
"I'm sorry." But it wasn't Oz that spoke from beyond the door this time. It was marginally higher pitched, and filled with far too much emotion. Buffy was always good at layering what she felt into a verbal bullets. "I'm sorry she did that to you, Xander. If I had known..."  
  
Xander sighed and grabbed a wash cloth. How much had she heard? Well, best to scrub up and get ready to hug it all away. If only they had some cookies. That had been the one thing Ted had been good for, cookies that made you forget all the wild and crazy badness. "Hey, now, she got what was coming to her, anyway. You made sure of that."  
  
He barely heard the response: "Yeah. I did."  
  


* * *

  
The armoire was filled with clothing. Dresses, shirts, and skirts were neatly nestled within the beautifully carved piece of furniture and unless she was mistaken more than half was designer. A much smaller portion looked like it was fresh from the seamstress. "Oh, this is evil. Soooo evil." Buffy stated as a freshly bathed hand reached out to touch the soft material of a blouse. "This is Mayor-Grade evil."  
  
"Totally. He's gone beyond the traditional candy bribes." Oz got a far away look in his eyes. "Do you think he's read the Evil Overlord List?"  
  
"I hope not." Xander shuddered from where he sat on their pushed together beds wearing only damp jeans with his button-up hanging open. He watched as Buffy pulled out a camisole and held it up to her towel wrapped body, thoughtful.  
  
Buffy whirled and looked at Willow who was petting the soft yarn of a yellow and pink sweater she'd found. Her friend's lips were pursed and her eyes tight. "Am I the only one with the wiggins about this? I mean... he only saw us for what, twenty minutes? And yet he has these tailored clothes all ready..."  
  
Oz nodded as Buffy's enthusiasm for the treasure trove of clothing dimmed. To be able to get all this for them in what little time had passed since they had first met the vampire in the woods meant one of two things, either he had ridiculous power and influence or he had been watching them and preparing for their arrival into his _territory_. Neither of which appealed to the shrunk teenagers. "Very much of the wiggins-worthy."   
  
When they had fallen into this world, they didn't even have the clothes on their backs. Well, they did, but clothing that had been worn to graduation remained the same and had swamped their much smaller frames. She'd expected to go out with a bang and painted on pants. Sex and Glory. Not turn into a midget that got into her big sister's closet.   
  
"Better check for Geeks." Xander quipped horribly as Oz suddenly sat up and turned to the elephant in the room: the door.  
  
"They would be awfully small." Nevertheless Buffy turned the shirt over. Might as well. Satisfied, she draped the spaghetti strap top over her arm and began rifling through the bottoms just as a loud knock echoed through the room. She had hoped to put things off, forever if possible, but life had stopped being nice ever since destiny decided to come calling.  
  
If only invitations could keep that at bay.  
  
"Uh, guys?" A male voice called from the other side. "You're up, right?"  
  
The scoobies exchanged a wordless look. Buffy sighed and headed back to the bathroom to change. Willow went to stand behind the beds, Buffy's crossbow within reach by her feet, and Xander went to move the chair. Oz simply waited, leaning against the wall, eyes that had briefly reverted to the honey-brown of his humanity suddenly blazed back into that of a beast.  
  


* * *

  
Jason hadn't been sure what to expect of the kids. He was supposed to be spending time with them, learning about their personalities and what they liked, things that Jean-Claude could use to endear the children to him. Richard didn't approve, but until he sorted out the mess with all the other shifters running around he didn't really have an alternative to offer and every argument he could come up with was soundly drummed down by the vampire.  
  
Sometimes, Jason really hated his job. Stuck between an Ulfric and a Master was not the most comfortable place to be, but he was, and now he had babysitting duty. At least the kids had the decency to sleep into the afternoon, and even if they were inclined to never come out of the bedroom Claudia had assigned to them Jean-Claude wouldn't be very happy with that as an excuse as to why Jason couldn't tell him about them.  
  
So here he was, standing outside the door, listening to the distinct rustling of something heavy being pushed aside. The door opened. Jason gave his best lady killer smile at the boy staring at him with deep brown eyes. "Have a good sleep?" The wolf held out his arms showing off a selection of child-sized clothing. "Since you didn't take the other room, well, thought you might like to change!"  
  
The boy just stepped to side with an eye roll and an air of resignation. Jason entered the room and his beast shifted uneasily within him. Tension, meet butter knife. The little werewolf was watching and his eyes were not human. It was like he'd spent too much time in animal form, and Jason hid his shudder with a flourish as he spun over to the unmade beds to drop off his cloth burdens.  
  
He smiled at the little witch. She was adorable, and when he caught her eyes with a smile she blushed and looked away while fiddling with something by her wrist. What could she... oh. Oh. The blonde stripper looked up as the bathroom door opened and with it came a wave of controlled apprehension and hostility. Her clothing fit better, short kapris and a halter top, he couldn't imagine her hiding anything on her.  
  
Yet the little shy red-head was carrying something and if she was Jason had no doubt that the little blonde had to be as well. He didn't know what it was, probably wouldn't be lethal to him, but why risk the pain?   
  
"Are you here to take us to your Master?" Her voice cut out sharply as she crossed her arms and observed him. Sure that attitude had been hilarious when directed at Jean-Claude, but not so much when it was pointed at him.  
  
"No. He's still dead." Jason responded as he noted Xander, at least he thought his name was Xander as the other kids had referred to him by it, begin poking through what he had brought. "It's daytime.  Past noon."  
  
The rebellious blonde frowned. "So? Vampires are always dead. We're underground, it's not like the sun is going to turn him into Mr. Crispy. Or does he not want to talk to us?"  
  
Now it was Jason who frowned. "He does, but the Sun. Is. Up. He won't be awake until at least around twilight. He doesn't wake up before then." Unless Anita is firing the metaphysical missiles at any rate.  
  
The wolf watched as something seemed to click in the girl's head. She smiled, and though it was full of sweetness and good things, her eyes were predatory. "Ah huh. So he... died with the day." Jason wondered why when she said the phrase it felt like air quotes were used. "Why then, are you here?"  
  
Shaking himself, Jason moved around the room. His beast was agitated and he didn't know why. He needed to move.   
  
The two boys had picked out a few things and were marching into the bathroom. The younger wolf sent him one last glare in silent warning before closing the door. Just Jason and the girls. He could do this. He had women eating out of... well... something every other night at Guilty Pleasures. He knew people. He knew how to read people.  
  
"Lunch date?" He asked with a smile and the witch's stomach growled. Her face blared the bright red of embarrassment. "And then maybe go for shoes?"  
  
Hazel eyes sparkled at the mention of footwear. A crack in the armor.   
  
Then the boys returned dressed plainly in solid colors and multiple layers. Wolf eyes stared into wolf eyes, and Jason found his beast sitting up as heat wafted off his skin like steam. He could  _feel_ the others further back in the hallway startle as the dominance game continued. Fuck, he shouldn't be doing this! He had better control than this! The scent of blood and violence filled his nostrils. This was a kid! A howl echoed ghostly in his ears. Even if he did have the potential to be Jason's Alpha the sheer fact of his youth would have prevented it! Beasts matched the people who carried them: a fully grown beast did not inhabit a child!   
  
There was a sharp pressure in Jason's mind and he looked away. Damn, damn, and double damn.  
  
When he looked back the dominate wolf, because no matter what he looked like that was no pup, was standing beside the witch and playing with her hair as if nothing had happened. Jason gave an internal moan. This was going to be a harder job than he thought.  
  
Someone in the hallway laughed, but it was filled with something heavier than amusement.  
  


* * *

  
"What do you think?" Xander asked as he sniffed at the meaty stew they had been given before shoving a spoonful into his mouth. They were in some kind of kitchen area, had yet to be led out of the underground complex, and were currently being fattened up like pigs to the slaughter. A morbid thought, and though they were surrounded by pretty things and pretty people, the little witch couldn't shake it. They didn't know what their captors wanted. Maybe they needed a young witch and friends for some strange vampire ritual? A blood sacrifice nobody would miss? A game of Twister?  
  
Willow sat squished between her boys staring at the strawberry éclairs on her plate.   
  
"I think he needs to cut his hair." Willow whispered as her eyes darted to the side to glance at one of the weres that had joined them in the kitchen. She'd reached out with her power, a tiny mental probe the equivalent of a _hello_ among witches and warlocks back home, and got back something wild but small and hesitant. She didn't want to look at him despite his pretty purple-y eyes and his tempting, silky hair.   
  
He reminded her of herself. Beaten down, shy, willing to do anything to keep people happy. To be accepted.  
  
Willow ran a hand through her own red tinted locks, though hers was more blood colored than his and still damp from its washing. Her hair fell straight just past her shoulders, it had grown out a bit since their arrival in this world, but it wasn't nearly as long as it once was. Cut in defiance, a statement, and it was going to stay that way.   She was not a doll to be dressed up, not a social experiment. She was not a placeholder, or a tool to be brought and used to save the popular crowd from their own idiocy. She was a person. Willow. Self proclaimed geek and budding witch!  
  
Lilac eyes drifted over to her where she sat and Willow jerked her head back down to examine the table. "It's just so long." She continued while her fingers pulled at the fabric of her skirt. "It probably gets caught on stuff all the time. And tangles easy. And takes forever to brush or dry, I known mine did, and what if he's in art class and it gets all in the paint-and-paint-goes-everywhere-and-" A warm hand took hold of hers, stilling them, and she blushed as her mouth clicked shut.   
  
Jason and his friend were looking at her questioningly. Willow shoved one of the éclairs in her mouth and studiously ignored the grown ups in the room.  
  
"Huh. Not that I doubt your expertise here, but I wasn't talking about Mr. Kitty Fantastico." Xander said in a low voice as he polished off his third bowl of stew. He stood up and stretched for a bowl of pudding causing Buffy to narrow her eyes and slide the cherry pie she'd claimed for herself closer.   
  
Never get between a Summers woman and her sugar. You might lose a body part.  
  
Willow swallowed the last of her donut and peeked at the two shape shifters. They were talking in hushed voices, she couldn't hear them, but the cat did not look pleased. She glanced her boyfriend who had worked through four servings of stew on his own, three rolls, and was currently looking at his apple turnover as if determining the best angle to attack it from. "What are they saying?" She uttered in less than a whisper.  
  
Oz's gaze flicked over to the other therianthropes for a second before shrugging. "Not sure. They're being pretty careful about the volume..." His eyes widened marginally and Willow fancied that his pupils contracted as he focused on them. "Kitty wants to tell some lady, doggy says not till later."  
  
Before she could decide what to do with this, admittedly small, information Jason spun about and walked back over to the table. He was smiling happily.  His companion was not, but he didn't make much of an effort to tell them anything. His eyes were a little blank, defeated, as if even that small argument had taken all the emotional energy he'd had. He made Willow uncomfortable, or it may have been the five éclairs in her stomach. She probably should have chewed more.  
  
The blond wolf blinked at them, his mouth quirking in a smile that was breathtaking, and spoke. "Uh, wow. You kids ate all that? What are you, black holes?"  
  
Willow wrapped one of the last donuts in a napkin and tucked it in her pocket. Buffy sniffed as if insulted, and Oz replied with a delicate shrug. "It has been speculated."  
  
Their own wolf gave a low chuckle, and the kitty cracked a small smile. One of the others entered the room, all professionalism, and whispered something to Jason. It didn't make him happy, but he plastered a smile on anyway. "So! Shoes, what do you say we get out of here for a bit and head to the mall? They're open later on weekends."   
  
Buffy smiled widely with purpose. Her teeth tainted red with bits of fruity flesh resembling so much blood. "Lead on, Wolf-Man."  
  
He wanted them out of the circus, to keep something or someone away from them, and Willow didn't know what.  
  
She hated not knowing.


	7. Mission Improbable

Entering the mall left Buffy with a feeling of being torn in two. On the one hand it was The Mall, land of bargains and bounty. On the other, though they were being extremely circumspect about it and she wouldn't have noticed most of tails without Oz and Xander, the scoobies were being herded like cattle. And she wasn't a cow in any sense of the word no matter what some jealous people might say.   
  
So, what to do? Their babysitter, because Buffy was one hundred percent positive she could upend that trashcan and wipe the floor with the big not-so-bad wolf anytime of the month, was doing a great impression of a sheepdog as he walked behind them in his too-tight pants and a shirt so sheer it left little to the imagination. What was his deal? Was he so used to dressing like a, Buffy blushed at the thought, that it just didn't occur to him to put on something normal people wore?  
  
The slayer shrugged deeper into her leather jacket and inhaled. She soothing, familiar smell of it helped her to think. Her hands itched for a weapon, but to walk around blatantly carrying crossbows, swords, daggers or stakes would have been of the bad and unwanted attention getting sort of way. Looking about at all the shops made her want to bounce around. People walked back and forth and for the first time in a while she didn't feel self-conscious about her appearance. Instead she felt self-conscious from the eyes she could feel but not see. Where oh where did her inner Fiesta Queen go?  
  
They dodged around a kiosk selling hair care products, Buffy was tempted to stop and make the woman with the bright red lipstick curl her hair, but she needed shoes. There was a department store on the west end of the shopping center that had possibilities. Lots of racks, lots of people, lots of space. Good, if not great, ladies footwear selection. The blonde wanted to hurry and run for the place. She was a full grown adult! Sort of. She didn't need babysitters, especially babysitters that were in some vampire's pocket.   
  
As they passed by a Game-Stop Buffy glanced over at Oz. He looked weird with a baseball cap on and yet he wore it like he was born to it. Did nothing ever phase him? "Are they still following?"  
  
He shrugged. So that was a yes. She looked around while pretending to peer in the windows, and the valley girl inside her gave a loud squeal at a particularly nice silk top, but managed to catch sight of a normal appearing man reading a magazine. Five minutes ago, he had been reading that same magazine at the bookstore Xander had detoured them through in search of comics.   
  
The brunette in question suddenly turned around and barked something at Oz, and there was that funny little smirk on his lips that he got when he thought of something suitably embarrassing, to which the werewolf responded in that same weird language. It might have been some variation on Jan'lock Demoniac, but Buffy had no clue. Willow watched it all with a curious expression on her face as she shrugged her shoulders at Buffy's questioning glance.  
  
Oz faced her. "Let's skip DSW, head over to Sears."  
  
Ah. Sears. The store that has sold everything from houses to human souls. Just don't tell the civilians that: they tend to be a little jumpy about the demon-clientele in the back. Although, did this dimension have demons as she knew them? The only _circus people_ she'd met were the ones at the actual circus...  
  
Still, she'd been wanting to head over there anyway. DSW just had too many open spaces for her taste. She skipped on over to Jason, poor schmuck, and tugged at his hand to draw his attention away from her boys. "Hey, wolfy-guy. Can we go to the department store?"  
  
Willow was hanging over the side of the walkway, looking down as if trying to will herself onto the ground floor and into the Magic-Box type shop. Jason rushed over in an eye-blink and grabbed her under the armpits to plop her back down on her feet; his face resembled that of a heart attack victim. "Yeah. Sure. We can do that." One hand stayed on Willow's shoulder as if to make she didn't attempt flight and or teleportation again.  
  
Oz let out a low, barely audible growl. The hand left as if burned.   
  
Buffy giggled. She couldn't help it. These guys had no idea what they were messing with. Spinning in a circle she gestured. "There's a mall-map over thataway!"  
  
Lots of racks in the department store. Lots of people. Lots of distractions...  
  


* * *

  
Rafael had been little help. He had returned her call, finally, and assured her that they were doing all they could for the escapees but without a complete list from St. Peters they could not be sure they had everyone. His information about the missing pint-sized criminal masterminds was lackluster at best. They were, he claimed, safe. For the moment. He would do his best to keep them that way as would all the Rodere.   
  
"Divided loyalties, my ass." Anita growled as she glared at a stoplight willing it to change faster. Her hand beat an irritated staccato against the steering wheel as her eyes darted to the clock blinking away the time. She should probably get that fixed. Her thoughts tumbled one after another chasing each other in a circle of annoyed anger and frustration. The Rat King, and she'd thought they had an understanding, had largely been a dead end.  
  
As much as she did for the preternatural community, she was not a shifter. She was a human servant and a Federal Marshall, he claimed, and it would be her duty to report the children and the missing shifters. It was a position he was not willing to put her in.  
  
Richard had been little better though he did let slip, and it was an honest slip as she could feel the hate and frustration projected through the phone line, that the kids were in a dark, damp, crypt of a circus. There was only one circus that could be described as a crypt, to her knowledge, though she wouldn't have called it damp. Perhaps a little dark, but that was all part of the ambiance. Still... "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to send hot silver straight up his ass and see how his vampire healing takes it."  
  
The light changed.  
  
Tread marks marred the pavement as her jeep squealed out and her grip on the wheel tightened. Jean-Claude may-or-may-not be awake with the all the rage she was giving off, just half an hour or so till sunset, but she had a few errands to run first. Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror and the pumpkin orange sky. She mentally compiled her To Do List.  
  
1.) Animator's Inc. Get Bert to shuffle around Appointments, Except for Kristine Case. Try to reschedule. No one else in the office can do it.  
  
2.) Call Dolph about getting that patient list for Rafael.  
  
3.) Raise Hell.  
  
It was a good, solid, workable list. Anita scowled as the driver in the Blue Camry next to her cut her off, and in response she gunned it and shot past him. When he raised his middle finger she reached for her Firestar and jabbed it at the window with a glare that could melt steel.  
  
He paled and slammed on the breaks. The Executioner continued on, her rage only slightly abated.  
  


* * *

  
He was a dumbass. Jason was not above admitting his faults, and at this moment as he stood there trying to wrap his mind around things, he freely admitted his failing. "I am a dumbass."   
  
The kids had vanished. One second they had been bouncing around, asking him weird questions, flipping through clothes, and the next... "Jean-Claude is going to kill me. And not in any kind of enjoyable way." He sighed and reached for his phone to call his back-up. The lack of cellular presence in his back pocket sent off warning bells through his head as he began patting himself down.  
  
All he discovered was the disturbing news that his wallet was gone, too. And with it was Jean-Claude's credit card.  
  
"Oh, Fucking Hell." A little old lady with her hair in a bun glared at him disapprovingly from where she was sitting and trying on sensible shoes. Jason ignored her in favor of attempting to figure out just how those little midgets had gotten away from him _and_ picked his pockets. Reviewing the last ten minutes he had to guess it happened when the non-were male had come up behind him showing off a too bright Hawaiian shirt. "I'm such an idiot."  
  
Banging his head against a convenient pillar, Jason groaned. He should have expected something like this. The kids  _had_ infiltrated a secure safehouse, he knew that, but somehow just what that meant hadn't quite sunken in. It was clear now that they hadn't been following someone else's plan. It had all been done on their own initiative.   
  
It was a scary and sobering thought. He couldn't treat these kids as kids; not that he had a whole lot of experience with that anyway. Whatever naiveté they had possessed had been ground out of them.   
  
Jason shook himself and inhaled deeply. The store was soaked with various scents criss-crossing the floor and racks. It was harder in human form, but he could still pick out the four he wanted. Going in different directions.  
  
"Fuck."  
  


* * *

  
"Why are we in the air ducts again?" Willow asked as she followed her miniaturized boyfriend. It was almost like the tubes in McDonald's play-place, except for the lack of random colors and clear bubbles to look out on the parents below. Nostalgia, how she did not miss you.   
  
"The air will blow our scents all over the Mall. Harder to track that way."   
  
"Oh." She sneezed. It was cold, and pretty dusty despite the constant air current. "I keep forgetting you can do that."  
  
Oz just smiled and tugged his hat down before taking a quick turn. "You wanted the magic shop, right?"  
  
"'Course!" She grinned as Oz maneuvered around and they collided in a sort of half-wrestle until his feet faced the grate. She watched as he kicked out and abruptly dropped into what looked like a storage room. There was a scream. Willow popped her head out of the opening, red hair dangling down, and giggled nervously. "Hi!"  
  
An obvious sales associate, her name-tag read Molly, stood leaning against several boxes with a bag of lemongrass in one hand and spare Thesulah orbs in the other. Her mouth gaped as she stared from the prone Oz who was blinking from where he had landed, thankfully, among boxes of feathers and, Willow sniffed, mint. Interesting combination. Luck spells, maybe? She wished she still had her notes but those were in her pack which was still getting cleaned. At least that was the excuse given.   
  
"You, who are you? What are you doing up there?" The woman was recovering quickly, concern filling her features as she took in the two children that had appeared in her ceiling.   
  
"Uh. We're the air-vent fairies." Willow stated quickly as Oz stood and dusted himself off. "We inspect air-vents all over, make sure the evil Sidhe mind their manners and what-not."  
  
She dropped into the werewolf's open arms. He nodded sagely at her bullshitting. "It's true. You never know when the Winter Court is going to attempt to bring on the next Ice-Age." At least they weren't trying to convince a bystander that bunnies didn't rip out the throats of the high school bimbo in the alleyway.  
  
Molly crossed her arms, peering into the air duct. "I'm sure." She didn't sound like she was.  
  
"Well, think about it!" Willow piped up as Oz set her on her feet. She plucked a dark feather off his shirt. "If they control the air conditioning they can control the inside environment! Global warming is the Summer Court's attempt to combat their evil machinations!"  
  
Molly arched an eyebrow and looked around the storage room. She ran a hand through her hair. It was a nice shade of dark blue, but her roots were growing in blonde. It wasn't too bad of an effect, Willow mused. "Fey politics aside, you kids just made more work for me. Where are your parents?"  
  
Now, how to get out of this one? Willow fidgeted and glanced around the small room looking for inspiration. The sales woman tapped her foot impatiently while going into adult-looking-for-answers mode. Something glimmered just out of sight. Willow blinked and looked closer. She squealed and waded through the mess created by their arrival to a shelf full of jewelry like objects. One in particular stood out. She'd only seen such a thing in books before. "Is that a Amulet of Eos?! Those are super-rare!"  
  
The bluette blinked and a surprised but pleased smile lit her formerly stern features. "Yes, it is. That one took seven covens working in conjunction to create. Where did you hear about them?"  
  
Oz gave the red head a thumbs up as they headed for the door, chatting all the way. "Oh. I read about them in an old library book. Really old. I think half the books there were plague bearing cesspools, still, they were good. Didn't tell you how to make one though."  
  
"I should think not. It isn't unheard of for a witch to die in the attempt..." As Molly continued her explanation Willow bounced on her toes. She'd missed magic talk.  
  


* * *

  
"Do you think we should tell him?" A tall, brunette, male asked his companion as they walked calmly through the food court.  
  
The green eyes of the other male surveyed their quarry before darting across the building to where a blonde was following some unseen trail. "Are you kidding? This is hilarious."  
  
The brunette gave a nod. "Point."  
  


* * *

  
She paused in her perusal of the sales rack. Veronica tried to surreptitiously glance around for the source of the hissing noise, but there was nothing in her immediate vicinity to account for it. Giving a mental shrug she continued flicking through her choices unhappily. Her last date ended rather badly, wine all over the lap of her dress, and the stain was not coming out. She needed a replacement.  
  
"Maybe I should just resign myself to a convent." She sighed while pulling a red and black cocktail dress out and giving it a thorough inspection. The front was gorgeous but she'd rather avoid the open back. Little Miss Vamp Bride wasn't the only one with scars, though the way she pissed and moaned about it you'd think she was.   
  
The blonde detective shoved the thoughts of her once best friend to the side. Things between them had just kept getting worse and worse, and though Veronica had honestly tried to understand where Anita was coming from she just couldn't. The guy was dead. A corpse. Necrophilia anyone?  
  
The sharp hiss returned. "Hey!" Said a whispering voice. "Pretty lady! Over here!"  
  
Veronica blinked, put the dress back on the forty-five percent off rack, and turned. "Hello?"  
  
"Hey! Is that guy still over by the watches?"  
  
She frowned. In two steps she had crossed the distance between the two circular racks of clothing. There was no way a pair of jeans was talking to her. She hadn't cracked: her job was not THAT stressful. She wasn't THAT delicate.   
  
She pushed several pairs of bleached jeans and a few copies of oriental print styled shirts. Her lips quirked in amusement as she found herself facing a brown haired troublemaker of a child. She could tell. She was just that good. "Before I say yay or nay, is there a particular reason you're hiding in the thirty-percent off rack?" A niggling doubt crossed her mind. "Is someone after you? Where are your parents?"  
  
"Uh, probably off drinking. But that isn't the point! The guy in the blue work shirt, is he still by the watches?" The brunette demanded in a low hiss. Veronica noticed the small shopping bag at his feet and wondered. Had he stolen it?  
  
She looked up, happily surprised. "Louis!" Grabbing the child's arm she pulled him from the rack and marched over to the best date she'd had in four months. Sure, it had been short, but he had been upfront about his condition and hadn't ruined any of her clothing. He also understood her when she talked shop.   
  
Who said dating services were wastes of money?  
  
"No, no, no! This is not the plan, this is soooo not of the plan!" The boy grumbled as she pulled him along.   
  
"Veronica. How pleasant to see you again." He smiled and it reached his eyes. Gorgeous. "I see you've located our wayward child."  
  
"He's yours?" She asked, surprised. "I didn't think you had any."  
  
"Well, no, but we've been watching him."  
  
"You and your... Road-Hair?"  
  
"Rodere." He laughed as he corrected her.   
  
The boy just glared at them both.  
  


* * *

  
Buffy was glaring at the man behind the counter. "I don't see any problem!" She spoke scathingly while tapping the wonderful, amazing, and near limitless possibilities that was the Platinum MasterCard. "I want the pointy shinnies. I give you shiny," she tapped the card a bit more forcefully. "And in return I get the pointy shinnies!" She gestured emphatically at the quality throwing knives in the glass case.   
  
Sharp, pointy, easily concealed, and she wanted them. Badly. But the man just shook his head sadly. "Sorry, doll, but I really don't think that... shiny... is yours. And I can't in good conscious sell these to you."  
  
Buffy wanted to pull her hair out. Gods, she should have just taken all the cash and given Xander the credit card. He probably wasn't dealing with crap like this. No one wondered where the bills came from. "Listen, buddy. I know what I'm doing. I need those. Can't we just... agree to disagree and partake in capitalism as it was envisioned by the founding fathers?"  
  
He just stared at her and scratched at the stubble on his chin, expression unreadable. Buffy threw up her hands and snagged the card, slipping it into her back pocket, and snatching up the bags filled with her previous purchases. "FINE! Be that way! Next time you get cornered in a dark alley with some evil fiend you'll probably be eaten because the person who could have saved you doesn't have any KNIVES!!!" She stormed out, righteous indignation and fury.  
  
Stupid store didn't deserve her business anyway. Once outside the doors the young slayer tilted her head up, sniffed, and grinned. She was still ahead of her keepers, she thought, and there was that oh so magnificent combination of scents that every woman recognized. "Land of Candles and Lotions, here I come."  
  


* * *

  
Xander steamed as the happy meal was placed in front of him. Normally, he was an excellent judge of character. He had seen the woman with the short cropped hair, saw the way she carried herself with a sort of natural alertness that only those trained could really pull off, and decided to rope her into his schemes to serve as lookout. But it backfired. Boy, did it backfire.  
  
He refused to look at either of the adults, refused to acknowledge their flirting, and instead opened the bag and retrieved his toy. Sometimes it was just plain creepy how similar the two dimensions were. But, for every dark cloud there is a silver lining, in this case, Sue Storm. "Hello, my lovely." He murmured to the action figure almost as tall his hand. She was a strange bluish color that would go clear in warm water. Or so the plastic baggie she came in claimed.  
  
Sneaking a peak at the advertisement on the counter by the drink machine, Xander debated his chances of using his appropriated monies to buy as many happy-meals as necessary to complete the set. He should at least get her brother, Jhonny, so she wouldn't be lonely. And it wasn't like the beauty and beast were paying all that much attention to him. Right. Sure. And he was a woman.  
  
Come on, solider, think!  
  
With all due respect, Sargent, up shut.  
  
Xander sprinkled salt over his fries and shuffled over to order another meal. Willow's favorite had always been Mr. Fantastic, what with his braininess, and it would be nice to have something to give his bestest bud besides the new notebook. He pointedly ignored the feeling of eyes on his back and trudged with a scowl back to the table where the lady and his watcher were engaged in a discussion of firearms. "Fudge. The Thing." He resisted the urge to contribute to their debate.  
  
He still had plenty of cash to burn through in mighty vengeance. Xander ripped into a burger, spare fries safely stored in a jacket pocket for later.  
  


* * *

  
Oz was content. Despite the circumstances, even his inner wolf was lounging in the La-Z-Boy of his soul and enjoying the evening. There had been anger at first, and a good deal of apprehension, but watching Willow flit about was enormously therapeutic. Of course it might have been the aromas given off the various herbs he couldn't name but that wasn't the point.  
  
The point was they were, for the moment, out from under the suffocating influence of the other weres and making a decisive strike against J. Schuyler's bank account. His witch was skipping in pleasure, bags of ill-gotten gains swinging dangerously from her wrists, her new multiple layered colorful skirt flying with every jump. She tossed the napkin that formerly held the last éclair into a trash bin.  
  
Oz stalked toward her, his own purchases had been rather sparse, and grinned as he pounced and whirled her about. "Ewww! You haven't even gotten past the cootie stage, Mr!" Willow whined as she wiped at her face where the werewolf had licked off a stray bit of strawberry flavored cream.  
  
"But it was oh so tempting." He paused. "Wanna swing by the food court?"   
  
Willow cuddled up to his side and slipped her arm beneath the guitar case strapped to his back so she could hold him closer. "But it hasn't even been four hours. I think... three?" Aside from the spontaneous underground buffet, when was the last time any of them had a good meal? Home cooked and tasty? Filling? Not something snagged from a gas station while the clerk wasn't looking.  
  
"So? Let's splurge. I smell Chinese." He paused and scented the air. "Huh. Blondie's back."  
  
"You shouldn't be so disrespectful. He's a grown up." She admonished while coming down from her caffeine and shopping induced high.   
  
"So are we."  
  
"Well, I don't know about you, but until I can both see over the dashboard and reach the pedals-" The rest of her sentence was cut off as Oz gently pulled her behind one of the standing advertisements and placed a finger to his lips. His eyebrows rose and he jerked his head. Green eyes peered around and gasped. Their blond escort was close. Too close. The gig was up.  
  
Took him long enough.  
  
Still... The beast inside him yawned and shook itself. His eyes went amber as Oz started his game...  
  


* * *

  
She arrived to a large crowd of people ignorant of her power, and yet on some subconscious level they recognized the danger. Just a few inches, but still very real, opened up between the short woman and the masses. She waded through the crowd, fingers itching, with her rage a fine boil. When her power trembled she caught sight of golden hair half concealed by shadows. Anita veered toward him.  
  
"Where are they, Asher?"


	8. No Man's Land

There was light, and there was darkness, but _always_ the warmth stayed. It curled up in the haven it had found and shivered. The warmth was feeling strongly, and it grew even hotter, but that only drew it closer. The warmth kept the darkness, and the Predator, at bay. Given a choice it would always chose the warmth.  
  
Though it did recall, dimly, a world of shape and sound. Of color and light. It had been born into that world suddenly and without warning, alone. Frightened. Danger had been everywhere in that world and a different predator had stalked it, followed with gentle words and sweet lies very nearly trapping it.  
  
Then it felt a rush. It was skinned and unmade into fleeting awareness to be banished into this world of nothing but light and dark and warmth. The wonderful warmth. But there was The Predator, massive, all-encompassing, that stalked and waited for it. Waited for it to leave the safety of the warmth. It didn't want to. To stay close was to stay safe, even when the warmth dimmed to the barest spark the Predator kept its distance.  
  
But, recently, it had sensed something else. Far, far away there was an echo of... something. Something familiar. Something like itself coming through the warmth.   
  
The warmth felt it too. There was an instinctive reaction, but the warmth didn't trust it. The warmth trusted the Predator that circled them both. It didn't understand. So it continued to feel, curled within the safety of the warmth, and wondered.  
  


* * *

  
Buffy scented the air hoping to catch some clue to the whereabouts of her trackers, but Oz's was far better than hers and she still had the citrus aroma of Mango Madness floating around distractingly, so by the time she heard them it was almost too late. She could make a break for it. The thought of breaking into a run and then making a dramatic leap over the handrails to the bottom floor was appealing. The probably broken/sprained ankle resulting from the three story drop was not. Then there were all the goodies she would be forced to leave behind and no doubt such an act would demand the attention of mall security.   
  
They were not the best.  She'd had successful run ins with them in the past while toting around a stolen rocket launcher, but if they recognized her from the news or had the slightest suspicions the cops would be called in.  Buffy refused to be caged in some hospital, told that they would find a cure for her, because there was no cure. She was what she was and nothing would ever change that. She wasn't crazy, just cautious.   
  
Her small hands tightened into fists at the thought of Oz experiencing that, and when her mind cycled through all of her friends in the same position her heart skipped a beat.  
  
Never. Again. The streets would run with blood before she let that happen and it didn't matter if it was red, blue, green, or day-glow orange.  
  
"They're closing up, Daph." A voice called amusingly. Buffy snorted but didn't turn to face the speaker. As if she didn't noticed the cages descending on the storefronts. The slayer tilted her head. How come she rated two bodyguards? She wasn't that lethal looking! She was just a cute little blonde ditz with a weapon fetish. Huh.  
  
Well, if the exits were blocked, and she had checked, then at least she could surrender on her own terms. Buffy blew at her bangs in irritation. "My name." She paused. Did she really want to tell them? It probably didn't matter either way, but they just felt so... Buffy was stumped. She couldn't put it into words. "My name is Buffy."  
  
Then she turned to face the rat and wolf with hands on hips, shopping bags flaring out at her sides like an old hoop-skirt. The green eyed wolf smiled. "Nice to meet you, Buffy."  
  
She looked him up and down giving his muscles a second pass as the teen buried deep within drooled. "Yeah. Whatever. Here." She thrust several of her packages at him. "You are male. You carry the bags." Keeping his own hands occupied for a bare second longer, if needed.  Her eyes darted to the barely contained laughter on the rat's face. "You too, Mickey."  
  


* * *

  
Rage, rage, rage. Against the soon to be dying vampire. Wasn't that how the poem went? No? Well, she had never been particularly fond of her Literature Courses. Necessary evil and all that, speaking of necessary evils...   
  
"Stop with the bush beating." Anita bit out as she ignored the wine offered by the golden haired vampire. Even she knew that they couldn't discuss such _delicate_ matters with the civilians running around the circus, but that didn't mean she had to play the hospitality game. "I know they're here."  
  
"And I know they are not." Asher replied smoothly. Anita resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Vampires. She'd yet to find one that would outright lie, but they could twist words and phrases as well as any politician. Maybe they taught the politicians.   
  
"Well, of course they aren't in this room! But you have them, you know where they are." Her body trembled with the force of her anger. "I won't have children dragged into Jean-Claude's games!"  
  
"Ma petite, had I known you would be visiting, I would have had a far better welcome prepared for you."  
  
Reflexes already honed by experience and improved through shared power burst to life. Before she even realized what she was doing Anita had her Browning in hand and pointed at Jean-Claude's head. She took a deep breath. Focus. Control. A mental voice that sounded like her grandmother scolded the loss of control, but she didn't lower her weapon.  When her opponent could move as fast as she could blink keeping her weapon prepped and ready wasn't paranoid.  It was pragmatic.  Anita stared at her lover over the Browning's sight.  
  
Though his expression was completely pleasant and serene he must have hurried to get back to the circus. Flew, most likely. His hair had that slight wind swept quality and there was the faintest tint of smoke and sweat around him. Guilty Pleasures?  
  
"Can it. I want the kids."  
  
He watched her, blue eyes twin pools of darkness, and leaned back.  The silk of his shirt fell open, exposing a peek of pectoral. What was he thinking? She didn't know. Wished to God she didn't need to. He opened his mouth. "And if you had them, what would you do with them?"  
  
Anita froze. She hadn't thought that far, truthfully. Her aim wavered, and she lowered the gun, but did not holster it. "I would take them home. They need a home, not a circus."  
  
"You think you can give them that, ma petite? You are strong, and can do many things, but somehow... I do not see you doing this."  
  
That ever present rage exploded. "What the Hell is that supposed to mean?!" In her outburst she knocked the wineglass over. It shattered on the stone floor, but it was only background noise compared to the rush of blood in her ears. "Just what the hell are you saying?!"  
  
God, why was he looking at her like that? "What I am saying, Anita, is that you cannot provide for them that which they undoubtedly need."  
  
"AND YOU CAN?!" Her firearm whipped back up, and Jean-Claude blurred. He was fast, and so was she, but Asher was faster still.  Closer. The gunshot echoed in the underground chamber as the bullet went wide and buried itself in the ceiling. She twisted and elbowed the scarred vampire with preternaturally enhanced strength, forcing him to inhale painfully and loosen his grip.   
  
Anita rolled to her feet, shaking, and stood with her back to the wall. Her crucifix had fallen out of her shirt during the scuffle and was glowing gently. Both vampires had backed off and were watching her in some twisted game of chicken. She felt helpless, like there was a great big maw of darkness waiting to swallow her up. Like it would reach out and detract her soul, the one thing she prized more than all else, and she would be nothing more than a shivering husk. A plaything for the monsters.  
  
She wasn't one, dammit. She wasn't. She was human.  
  
Why was Jean-Claude doing this? She thought she loved him. Maybe he loved her... "What can you give them that I can't?" What is so terrible about her that monsters are preferable?  
  
Silence. Those blue eyes, all four of them, watching her. Assessing. Asher was the first to break it. "Stability." Her nostrils flared. "Think, Anita. Quiet your emotions for one moment and Think. You are honor-bound to turn the children in. And even if you should not, your job would inevitably lead to the police meeting them at some point be that at your home or in some other fashion.   
  
"There is also your position as The Executioner. Not only are you often called out to crime scenes, but should a writ be issued you will have to carry it out. What would you do if your prey should come to your home? You have been marked before. Would you pit babes against the onslaught of your life?" He paused then, and though Asher rarely raised his voice to her, indeed his gaze was always soft and filled with gentle longing, ice blue eyes hardened. "Already you have responsibilities you can barely manage. I think four young children would ruin even that."  
  
Anita swallowed to work moisture back into her mouth. "Maybe," she did not want to say this, "Maybe you are right. But they should not be here either."  
  
Jean-Claude spoke, and it was like velvet down her spine. She could ignore it if she wished but... "Ma petite." He walked toward her, caution hidden in sensuality, and reached out. "Would you ask me to hand them to the authorities? Into the, system? I believe your Nathaniel could tell you tales of such."  
  
"So you want them, here." She gestured around the room. "Where they can sleep among vampires, lycanthropes, and all manner of beastie?" She barked out a dry laugh and wiped at her eye with her free hand. The other still held the Browning. "Tell me another one. I can talk to Zebrowski. Hell, I can talk to Dolph, I'll make sure they get placed somewhere good."  
  
Asher leaned out the door to speak to a pair of security that had come to investigate the commotion. Anita business. Nothing to worry, too much, about. Everything is well under control.  
  
Jean-Claude ran a hand through his hair. "There is something more..." He trailed off as if unsure how much he wished for her to know. "My rats went through their things and-"  
  
"You went through their stuff! What could they possibly-!"   
  
He cut her off with a glare and sharp, "Anita!" She quieted, but only to compose her retort. "It is a very good thing they did so. The children are no where near helpless, as you seem to think age determines everything, and carrying enough weapons to land them in prison had they been adults."  
  
Her voice was small but packed with disbelief. "What?"  
  
"At least a gallon of Holy Water between them. Even the stakes were soaked in it. Blessed knives." Anita stepped toward the table and reached for the heavy wooden chair. "Unidentified Hoodoo charms, and an interesting miniature collapsible crossbow. Enough provisions to last at least a fortnight if properly managed, though nothing particularly nourishing. They had planned to hide out for weeks, Anita. They could have very well succeeded."  
  
She stared at him, her gun in her lap, her mind blank as it tried to absorb the information. "There's more, isn't there."  
  
He nodded.

"The little witch," Anita felt herself stiffen as she recalled Tammy's words, "Had a notebook. It has, on the inside cover, the usual slot for the name of the owner and for a contact number and address for return should it be lost." Jean-Claude, at times, was as bad as Edward when it came to revealing information. What was the big deal? So the girl wrote her name down. Yippee. They had some way to identify the poor kid that wouldn't involve interrogation. "Mademoiselle Rosenberg hails from Sunnydale, California."  
  
Anita could swear her heart stopped. Her recovering anger drained and gave way to stark, cold, fear laced shock. "That is not possible."  
  
Jean-Claude only shrugged. Her trigger finger twitched.  
  


* * *

  
"Oh! Oh! They made yet another Friday the Thirteenth!" Xander stated with incredulous glee as they drove past the theater marquee.  
  
Jason's hands squeezed the wheel. "No." He was not taking them to the movies. The thought of those little monsters free to make plots and plans in the dark, crowded theater with stale popcorn and whispered conversations of the movie goers to aid in their concealment was terrifying. He had already almost lost them in the brightly lit mall. If it weren't for the extra security detail, originally assigned just in case anyone spotted the kids and tried to come after them, they would have bolted. "No."  
  
The little blonde one pouted, and Jason suddenly wished the car had been big enough for Louis to ride with them. Or even Kenny. It wasn't like they didn't already know they were under heavy guard. He felt outnumbered and outgunned, especially with the other wolf sitting next to him in the passenger seat. Sure, he looked relaxed and non-threatening, but Jason knew what lurked inside. He'd nearly screamed when the little brat snuck up on him -him!- in the mall and pounced.   
  
As he peered into the rear view mirror to see the witch writing in her new leather bound notebook, the dulcet tones of Queen began ringing around the interior. "... _She keeps Moet and Chandon in her pretty cabinet_..." Shit. He'd completely forgot about his phone in all the chaos.  
  
"Xander, your butt's ringing." The red head stated absently as she chewed on the end of a gel pen and made another notation.   
  
"Why, so it is." The boy muttered as he shifted ineffectually, angrily unclipped his seatbelt, and reached into his pant's pocket. Jason groaned and half-turned in the driver's seat while reaching back for the phone.   
  
"Here. Give it to me, she's probably pissed."  
  
But the kid ignored him and lifted the phone to his ear with a hissed, "Watch the Road!" He grinned and hit the little green button with his thumb. "Hello! You've reached the Earth Defense Force, if you have an apocalyptical-" The brunette's grin melted and he frowned at the voice Jason could easily make out over the speaker. The blond werewolf winced and again reached for the phone.  
  
Xander danced away, climbing over laps to the indignation of the females, and glared at the phone. "Hey, Lady, I have no idea who you are or what your problem is, but may I suggest decaf?" With that he punched the end call button and threw the phone down under the seat.  
  
Jason's inner beast whimpered at what was to come. Only one person had that ring tone. If there was anything left of him once Jean-Claude was through Anita would see it burned and scattered on the wind. Pissed off Lupas were never any fun, and pissed off Lupas that doubled as Bolverk were even worse.  
  
A car horn blared as Jason snapped his attention back to the road and barely managed to avoid a Hummer. "Geeze." The blonde girl said derogatorily. "Even I know not to drive into oncoming traffic."  
  
Jason resisted the urge to slam his head into the steering wheel and cry.  
  


* * *

  
Lillian rubbed her forehead as she signed a last bit of paperwork. A look to the clock told her it was well into the night shift and she pushed away from her desk and the cold coffee it bore. Closing the folder she had been working on the wererat headed into the hallway and gave a polite nod to Dr. Micheals who was heading toward the burn unit.   
  
She had just slipped the folder into its proper basket at the information desk when the young nurse manning it jumped up. "Oh! Dr. Lillian, a fax came for you." He was fairly good looking, but rather wimpy, Lillian mused as she watched him pull a pen from the cup and go through a stack of paper. What were they teaching kids in school? Chaos is order?  
  
"Here it is. I think it came in during lunch." He handed her a series of papers she had been expecting. Lillian frowned. Why hadn't anyone told her then? Damn bigots. If she was the petty sort she'd release the lab mice in Nurse Tanning's locker.  
  
"Thank you, Evans." She spoke softly as she headed for the sliding doors, flipping through the information. The first few were fairly normal, lab results from a few of the escaped shifters, with the last four having been put on rush job. The first was base human, the second unusual but not, she supposed, out of the realm of possibility, the last two however... "This is insane."  
  
The rat therianthrope sat in her car with the engine idling and stared at the results. "This is, impossible." Mind made up, Lillian set the papers in the passenger seat and shifted into gear. Perhaps the blood samples had been contaminated? Clearly, she would just have to redo the tests. St. Louis General wouldn't like her using their equipment for outside projects, but, well, they didn't like many things.   
  
It was about time she used her tenure to bully around the newbies, and just for kicks, she'd make Nurse Tanning help her.  
  


* * *

  
The lights were out when she got home. Anita walked up to her door, cupped her keys in the palm of her hand, and entered. The pard wasn't there. Nathaniel would be working and she had no idea where Cherry or Vivian were. Actually, now that she thought about it, she never asked what either of them did for a living. She knew Nathaniel and Gregory worked at Guilty Pleasures and Zane did something at the Circus but...  
  
Anita left her purse on the couch and pulled her Firestar from its holster at her back to place it on the counter. She reached up into the cabinets, cursing her height all the while, and pushed aside bags of coffee beans and oatmeal. When her fingers finally found the cool glass container she was looking for she felt like a kid trying to raid her mother's closet. Stretching to her limit, she tipped the vodka bottle toward her and caught it.   
  
In her line of work, it was dangerous to drink. You never know when someone is going to come bursting through a door with a sawed-off, but she needed something stronger than coffee. God, did she need it.   
  
The vampire hunter found a half empty carton of orange juice in the fridge, poured a glass, and then added a liberal amount of the vodka. Jean-Claude's news echoed in her mind, and she shivered. Sunnydale. Fuck. That place was the reason Congress made a bi-partisan push to get executioners instated as Federal Marshals. Whatever the press had been told when she was called up and forced to go in for training, it didn't know half of it.  
  
Anita sat in her kitchen chair and knocked back her drink. She couldn't stand the taste, it was why she used to much orange juice in the mix, but she needed it. A few years ago, despite everything she'd been through she would have denied herself the indulgence, but when everyone around you is leaving the worst briefing to ever grace a boardroom and heading for a bar, well, things change.   
  
Sunnydale, California. A small town, barely even noted on state maps, but the focus of the largest cover-up in the United States history. Currently guarded off by barbed wire and electric fences. Anita could still remember the slideshow of pictures from her training conference. This, the speaker told them, is what we are trying to prevent. It is your duty to integrate, to understand, and to keep the vampires in line. If one tries to upset the balance, you put it down. If anyone, monster or otherwise, tries to break the status quo, you put them down.  
  
Three years ago the Master of Sunnydale was killed, most likely by a bounty hunter, and every last vampire in the town limits went revenant. If she closed her eyes she could still see the frozen photo of a little girl torn to pieces, of grown men and women transformed by blood lust as they charged unheeding into the flamethrowers focused on them. Nearly everyone killed by the initial revenant crisis rose as one, increasing the numbers, and the only saving grace was that enough of the townsfolk were able to make emergency calls and get help before the second night fell.  
  
The incident almost overturned Addison vs. Clark. Almost. The only thing that stopped it, aside from the information black out and gag order on everyone involved in the salt-and-burn, was the news that the former Mayor had been a heavy duty dark sorcerer. Wilkins was his name, and carefully retrieved records showed a history of human sacrifice and demon summoning going back nearly a hundred years. Should news of his activities ever get out there would be a nation wide panic and it would be the Salem witch trials all over again, and a panicking witch is a desperate witch.  From experience, Anita could attest that desperate magic users got... lethal.  
  
Anita stared into her empty cup. She was out of orange juice. Pursing her lips, she grimaced and drank the spirit straight from the bottle.   
  
Jean-Claude had only added fuel to the black abyss that was Sunnydale's history. The Master that had been killed, Nest, had been a candidate for the Vampire Council. He had fed off pain like others fed off lust or fear. Then a necromancer, what would be the last known for three hundred years until Anita's own birth, used a ritual to trap Nest in an underground cavern and sacrificed himself in the process.  
  
Sunnydale was founded atop it.  
  
Anita looked out the window. No one went to Sunnydale. No one came out of Sunnydale. The higher ups decided it couldn't be risked, too much bad mojo around there. But those kids... tiny little people... they had to have lived through it. The worst kind of war zone, yet they survived. Got past the checkpoints. Hell, it sounded like they had thrived.  
  
How?  
  
Anita pillowed her head in her arms. Maybe the answer would come to her in the morning. It had happened before.


	9. Sleepless in St. Louis

Rudolph Storr rubbed at his eyes with one hand while the other held the phone to his ear. He was tired of getting stuck on the clean up crew, tired of having to deal with the freaks and the press and the god damned bureaucracy. "I don't care how sensitive the issue is, I want those files and I wanted them yesterday." He growled into the receiver. He was tired of getting the run around by paper pushing yes men.   
  
"I'm sorry, sir. But until the inquiry is completed everything is classified and sealed. You know the drill. I'm sure Agent Moss will-"  
  
"No. Just, no. Never mind." He hung up. There was a knock on the inside of his door and he glared, thinking it was that idiot Jen from the crime lab, but all he saw was Zebrowski bearing a tray of foamy hot chocolate and... Snickerdoodles? Son of a Bitch. "Katie made those, didn't she?"  
  
Zebrowski smiled in affirmation and took one of the mugs of chocolate, dipped a cookie in it, and gestured. "She thought we could use the pick-me-up." The cookie vanished into his mouth as Dolph sipped at his own cup of sweet melted goodness. It almost made him forget the crap he had been dealing with all day. The slight zip from the combination of the cinnamon in the cookies and the chocolate in the drink was rather pleasant. Soothing.  
  
"Damn federal snobs have completely taken over the St. Peters crime scene. Won't let anyone else in on it."   
  
"You know how Tammy feels about this." The other man paused and adjusted his glasses. "Call in Anita."  
  
"I already got her on the furry front. She needs a patient list but  _they_ don't want to give it up. Not that they should be able to stop us, but..." He sighed. "Kirkland's still recovering from his last hit?"  
  
Zebrowski hummed and nodded. "Yeah. Tammy about threw a fit when I suggested calling him in."  
  
"Fairies?"  
  
"Hey, I'm told they have a vicious overbite and don't take kindly to a crowbar to the face." He grinned. "So what's the plan, boss?"  
  
Dolph finished off the plate of cookies. He felt a little better. If he was the suspicious type he'd think Zebrowski's wife was putting something in them. As he stood, Dolph snagged his coat and motioned for Zebrowski to follow. "Call Perry in the morning. I'm through with his phone-tag bullshit. They can't keep us out, not when they already forced this shit storm on us, and I want information. I don't care if I have to start pulling teeth, I want to know exactly what was going on in there." The photos and medical records that had been slipped to them only told half the story, he was sure.  
  
Zebrowski snapped a salute with a pen in his hand as a secretary ran up with a form for him to sign. "Looks like we just got in another one. Poor bastard is stuck in some kind of half transformed state. Snake, apparently. Snapping at anything that moves."  
  
"How many does that make?"  
  
"An even ten."  
  
He headed for the door, mug of steaming chocolate clutched close, and hoped that their animator was having better luck. It didn't take a genius to know that more than ten escaped; he hoped they were in better condition than those that were occupying RPIT's holding cells. Well, in the morning, he'd get his answers. If not... no. He would get answers. Anita once jokingly described him as a force of nature, and he damn well would be.  
  


* * *

  
Cherry lay in bed, staring at the wall. Her apartment wasn't in the best of neighborhoods, far from it, and every time a car passed by her enhanced hearing picked up the rumbling of the engine and she saw shadows move across the room. There was a purring in her ear as Zane crawled over and burrowed into her side. His hair, currently a bright blue, tickled her nose.  
  
"Get some sleep. Sleeep." He purred out. "There's nothing you can do about it, tonight. I already called everyone we know."  
  
Cherry's hands fisted in the sheets as she drew comfort from the warm body pressed against hers. Feline, musky, wild, and so incredibly Zane. Maybe if Gabriel hadn't stunted him, maybe if he hadn't been forced to stay so long in leopard form, maybe if they hadn't been, sometimes still were, the most despised shifter group in St. Louis he would have been stronger. Able to lead. Alpha. Zane wasn't weak, not really, he was just... just... "I know." Her voice was muffled by the pillow. "It's just. When I think about those little girls, I think about what he made us do." She choked on emotion, swallowed it down, and turned into his chest. "I hate it. I hate it so god damn much."  
  
His beast stared out of his brown eyes, flecking them with green, and he nuzzled her. Her own swam up and paced beside his, metaphysical bodies entwining with the sense of pard. Of mate.   
  
"I know, babe." His voice grated, chest vibrating, and Cherry shivered.  
  
"Burns, Zane. Burns. She must have been terrified. And the other one..." He kissed her hair and wrapped his arms around her body. There was a simmering anger in the air. "And the boys. I saw Lillian's notes, how can anyone do that to kids? They're so little, it's a wonder they trust us at all."  
  
"I don't think they do."   
  
She looked back up at him, eyes asking what her mouth refused to. Zane was quiet, thinking, his hand coming up to rub circles at the base of his neck.   
  
"Nathaniel, he came by the Circus to see if Jason wanted to go into work together. I was getting off." Cherry sniffed. Nathaniel had been, perhaps not distant, but not as close as he used to be to the pard. She didn't know if that was a good thing. He needed to grow out of his dependency, but though she was no psychologist she doubted that to be the case. He was simply switching his focus. "He saw them."  
  
"...are they doing okay? They were so exhausted..."  
  
When her mate shrugged their entire cocoon of limbs and sheets wobbled dangerously on the edge of the bed. "They reminded him of the other kids in his foster homes, before he ran away. Like they're just waiting."  
  
"Waiting for what?" To be hit? Burned? Tortured? Raped? That unfamiliar but welcome anger boiled up despite Zane's soothing ministrations. His own beast echoed hers. She wished she had some knives to sharpen.  
  
Maybe she would get some.  
  
"I don't know." He licked his lips.  
  
Cars continued to drive by. Cherry heard something that sounded like a trashcan in the alley being knocked over. She hunkered down, breathing in Zane's scent, and entangled her legs with his. It would take a good ten minutes to sort everything out when they finally decided to get out of bed. Rubbing a cheek against his arm, she mewed in frustration.  Instinct as raw and unforgiving as an open wound clawed at the forefront of her mind.   
  
She couldn't sleep. Not until she knew they were safe. But she didn't know, couldn't begin to sort it out, and even if she did...  
  
Her eyes closed as she tried to block out everything but the beat of Zane's heart.  
  


* * *

  
Their packs were waiting for them when they got back. The grown ups tried to cajole them into splitting up again, even showed the boys the other room, but the scoobies refused. Buffy watched the pack mules carry in their purchases like a queen surveying her lands before waving them out with a diabetic smile.   
  
Willow groaned and fell back on the bed, much to her boyfriend's amusement, and tossed a tasseled pillow from the recently made bed at him. She missed. "Hey, 'snot funny. I'm still sore from all the hiking and your dungeon crawling did not help." She wrinkled her nose. "Or those stairs. I am so glad I slept through the first time."  
  
Oz shrugged and opened up a backpack that the smelled least like any of the others. He'd been pretty out of it back in the woods when the worn leather pack had first been presented to him; he couldn't remember everything it had contained but, "Holy Water's gone."  
  
Buffy's head shot up from where she was sorting through her purchases. "Excuse me?" She frowned, setting box of scrunchies to the side, and marched over to her own denim bag. Oz watched as her cheeks took on a pink tint. "Those, those, rats!"  
  
"Is yours gone, too?" He asked conversationally as he continued to take stock of the contents. The stakes were gone, but the dagger remained. Funny how they didn't just take everything. Stakes were easy to make, anyway, all you needed was a bit of broken furniture and with all these wooden antiques conveniently decorating the room it wasn't like there was a lack of materials.  
  
He snapped out of his musings as Willow sat up on the joined beds and waved her hand, the act of concentration bringing her thin eyebrows together cutely, and causing another backpack from the pile to rise and float over to her. Not even a waver, Oz noted, as he detected the faint fruity scent that was her magic. "I still got my crackers. Change of clothes missing... but they didn't fit right anyway." With a happy smile she produced a beaten and abused notebook from the depths of the pack.  
  
Oz blinked. Somehow, the fact that his flame haired sprite had managed to keep her notebook on her throughout an Ascension, dimension hop, and semi-kidnapping did not come as a surprise. It was just so Willow. _Priorities._  
  
Xander bounced out of the bathroom, wiping damp hands on his pants, and glanced around in confusion. "Okay. What's the damage?"  
  
Buffy stood swiftly and kicked at her pack before stalking over to the beds and groping under them for the crossbow that had been left behind. "I should have just taken the shinnies. And the bike. Hell, I should have stolen a lap-top and placed an Internet order for a damn plane."  
  
Oz mentally cursed. Why hadn't he thought of that?  
  
Willow sprawled out on the beds again, her bag ignored in favor of comparing entries in her two notes. She nibbled her bottom lip, flipped a few pages, and let out a happy chirp. Oz entertained himself by flicking the little wolf head on his PEZ dispenser and watching his friends. Xander kept quiet and appeared not a little disturbed at his reduction in armaments. Buffy had not ceased a muttered litany of curses and held the famed Mr. Pointy in one hand and her, surprisingly not confiscated, crossbow in the other.   
  
What were they going to do? He had promised to go in again so the doctor could do a more detailed check-up. This wasn't unusual and made sense. He'd watched enough night time TV dramas to be suspicious of any government hospitals and just because he wasn't aware of any invasive procedures didn't mean that they hadn't happen. If there was a bomb in his stomach or a tracking device up his nose he'd like to know, thank you very much.  
  
"We need to get out of here." Buffy suddenly spoke up, cool determination settling around her like a cloak. The fact that the weapons which had been taken from them had all been vampire specific seemed to energize her paranoia. Not that he blamed her. "But there's no way we can do it without anyone noticing."  
  
"Whatever we do," Oz added. "We should do while the sun is up."  
  
Xander nodded from his spot on the floor. He was putting batteries into walkie-talkies, and they looked expensive. Probably had a range for several miles. "If vampires here _do_ sleep all day, it would take them out of the equation."  
  
"Bet it makes 'em easier to slay, though." The blonde said while fingering the warped and well loved stake. "Like shooting fish in a barrel."  
  
"We still need a plan. If this was a fight-or-die, it would be business as usual, but... I kinda like these guys." At Buffy's expression Willow waved her hands defensively. "Hey! That's not to say I trust them! Jason was kinda funny. Of course, Oz is still the only werewolf for me!" She quickly assured him with a brilliant smile.  
  
"You guy's keep forgetting." Oz sighed as he pulled his new guitar from its case and began to tune it. "Lycanthropes. Extra-sensitive hearing."  
  
Buffy's mouth shut with a surprised click. Realization overcame her face and she scowled at the door.  
  


* * *

  
She came to with the phone ringing shrilly. Growling, her hand poked out from beneath her pillow as she groped for the cursed device. Who calls to late? Honestly? She had half a mind to disconnect the damn thing and roll over back into the land of nod.  
  
But, as ever, logic had to intrude on her happy fantasy. Normal people didn't call at, she squinted at the red lights of her digital clock, half past midnight. So it would have to be someone she knew. Possibly, most probably, a client. Sighing, Gwen fumbled with the phone and held it to her ear. "'Lo?" It better not be Nancy Jones, if it was, she was transferring her. No ifs, ands, or buts.  
  
"Gwen, baby, sorry to wake you." The werewolf psychologist sat up, blankets falling from her shoulders, and frowned.   
  
"Sylvie? Is something wrong? Did... did something happen with the Pack?" She hoped not. They were already in muddy waters, had been for some time. Thronnos Rokke didn't need more problems. Their physical strength may be enough to deter most challengers, but sooner or later, someone was going to see what she saw. Jean-Claude could maneuver and distract all he wanted, but the truth was with the right words, the right offer, they could crumble.   
  
Raina and Marcus had kept them downtrodden, and Richard was doing his best, but Gwen didn't know if it would be enough.   
  
"No, nothing like that." She let out a sigh of relief. "And before you ask, Richard's fine. A little upset, Jamil said he broke the TV remote, but fine. I'm actually calling because, well, you remember that break out?"  
  
"Who doesn't?" Updates had been scrolling along the bottom of the news cast all day. "I got a call during work about taking in a wolf. She's downstairs sleeping right now, like I should be."  
  
"Right. Listen, Jean-Claude has the kids-"  
  
"What?!" Gwen yelled, cursed herself at the sound of something breaking downstairs, and walked across the room for her robe.   
  
"He's got them. His intelligence network is almost as good as Rafael's, better in some places, and Richard let him use some of the betas and Jamil to track them." It was all said quickly, a rush of breath. "But there's something wrong with them, Gwen. Very, very, wrong."  
  
"...I don't do children, Sylvie. You know that." The hall floorboard creaked, and she looked up to see her door open. A skinny, pale girl barely out of her teens stood there hunched in on herself.   
  
"You're all we have. They need help."   
  
The girl crept into the room as Gwen sat down and patted the bed. None of this was good for the pack. But she couldn't deny the need as the younger woman huddled into her side. It happened on their turf, sort of, they had to take care of it.  
  
"I had a cancellation Wednesday."  
  
"Thanks, babe."  
  
"...you owe me dinner." There was no bite in her voice. Just resignation.  
  


* * *

  
Vampires have really sucktastic timing, Buffy thought as they followed the unfairly tall woman from the other night into a dark green room. It was late and had they been in Sunnydale her patrol would be ending and she would be headed for her nice, fluffy, warm bed. That was the trouble with vampires: they couldn't keep decent hours like normal people.  
  
Well, she didn't need a circadian rhythm, anyway.  
  
"Mes enfants." The dark haired vampire greeted as they shuffled into the room. Buffy spotted their babysitter in the corner, but he wasn't looking at them. He was staring at the floor, defeated like, and she decided she didn't care for air of shame and depression that wafted from him. "I trust you have found your stay comfortable?"  
  
"Mostly." There was heat in her voice. Plenty of comfortable, plush chairs filled the room yet she chose to stand in her new pink pajamas. Oz selected a forest patterned over-stuffed chair, and Willow perched on his lap nervously with her hand grasping his thigh. Neither of them said anything, but the pool of magic at the witches fingertips was like an eight-hundred pound gorilla in the room.  
  
"Oh?" His question was curious, and there was that thing he did with his voice, but as long as she didn't look at his eyes she had a chance. "Je promets, vous êtes dans les mains sûres, ma guerrière."  
  
The words wormed their way into her ears, rubbed against her heart, but she slapped them away. Stomped on them with her foot and locked away the feelings that unnaturally seductive voice had stirred up. The slayer would not meet his eyes, but everything else about him transmitted compassion, pity, and assurance. Mr. Pointy was a welcome warmth at her back.

"I'm not yours." Was that really her voice, breathless and low?  
  
"Non. I don't think anyone could claim any of you." This time his voice was filled with indulgence and humor. She could hear Xander shift uneasily. When did the blonde bloodsucker show up? He certainly hadn't come in from the door the scoobs had used. "Tell me, mes enfants, how have you come so far from your home?"  
  
Buffy's throat seized. How did he know? Did he know? He couldn't, could he...? Evidently he had not expected an answer, or at least not much of one, for after a few moments of silence and widened eyes he seemed to confirm something for himself and change the topic to something more comfortable.  
  
"Mon pomme tells me you had quite the eventful shopping trip."  
  
Buffy snorted. Xander scowled. Willow hid a smile with Oz's shoulder while he replied, "Hide-and-Seek, world class."  
  
"Undoubtedly." Jean-Claude parried, and Buffy felt something shift in the room. It was like his voice, but not, and not focused on them but... she saw the brief grimace that ghosted across Jason's face. Weird. Did the vampire have freaky mind powers, too?  
  
She should have made them stop at Home Depot for a two-by-four.  
  
Buffy subconsciously moved to stand closer to her friends, claiming them, a short little girl in cotton pajamas and pigtails facing creatures of the night with nothing but a single stake tucked into the elastic of her pants. "Not that we don't appreciate everything, Master," and when she said the title it was laced with biting sarcasm, "But we were kinda hoping when we got our stuff back, we would get. Our. Stuff. Back."  
  
"I have told you, you have nothing to worry about while you are in my Circus." Buffy could hear the softness in his voice. She didn't believe it. Not for a second. Angelus had been able to do the same, when he wanted to.  
  
"That's not the point." Xander grumbled from where he sat, legs swinging. Buffy felt her lips twitch in amusement at the thought of her Xander-shaped friend getting caught at the mall while the rest of them got to run around enjoying their limited freedom. He was still a little upset about it.  
  
Jean-Claude blinked slowly. "Perhaps not." And the vampire shifted in his seat, watching them, staring as if they were some kind of incredibly popular day time soap opera and a minutes inattention would cause derailment of the entire plot. Buffy had the sudden urge to step back, closer to her friends, and away from those knowing eyes.   
  
"We would not harm you." The golden haired vampire spoke, but he wasn't looking at her. No, he was focused on Xander with the same expression her watcher used to get when trying to puzzle out Californian teenager speak. "It would be ungracious to do so after inviting you into our city."  
  
And that was the single most ridiculous thing she had ever heard a vampire say. It made a sick sort of sense, the French high-society political mind at work, but they hadn't really been invited. Invited implies you have a choice. Still, if they were playing the host-and-guest card it gave them a reason to take their weapons. Rude thing to do, walk into a host's home carrying the exact thing they are allergic to.   
  
Buffy shifted uneasily. The vampire was talking again, saying something about accommodations and apologizing for not being able to speak to them more the night before. She didn't pay all that much attention. Someone wanted to meet them tomorrow, would they be up to it? Dr. Lillian has requested a stop by the hospital. A few other things...  
  
Buffy's mind whirled and latched onto one detail, coming up again and again until she wanted to squash it. Asher didn't come in through the door.  
  
So how did he get in?  
  
"Yeah, sure." She answered the question on autopilot, deep in thought. Her toes dug into the fibers of the soft carpet.  
  


* * *

  
Asher contemplated his unusual predicament as he entered his chambers. Ever since the loss of Julianna he had been living something of a half-life. She had been his light. His reason. His blood. When she died screaming in agony, he had felt it, had felt a piece of himself be consumed in fire even as the priests dripped holy water over his physical body. Very few things interested him now, so long had he lived for the sole purpose of seeing Jean-Claude suffer, but his thoughts kept coming back to the latest puzzle to grace St. Louis.  
  
All four of the children were remarkable anomalies. The witch, the wolf, and the two others. They still did not know exactly what either of them were. Asher wanted to know, needed to know, especially the child with those dark brown eyes... eyes that reminded him of hers. When the light hit them just right, when she smiled, and he could remember her laugh so clearly it hurt, her eyes had carried that exact shade. Thinking of it was like taking a silver blade to the heart and having it roughly twisted.  
  
Jean-Claude had his Anita, though that relationship was so many kinds of strange and unusual he wasn't sure how much it counted, and Asher had... what, exactly? No longer under the council's constant gaze, a welcome change, but what was left? He had never been particularly ambitious. He could not even continue the old familiar relations with Jean-Claude as the man followed Anita's rules to the letter.  
  
And now this. This child that reminded him of his Julianna in a way no other had, that spoke in a language he'd never heard -and living among the council ensured he heard many- that gave off something so terribly irresistible he didn't know what to do. He had half a mind to wrap the boy in linens and stuff him in the nearest closest for safekeeping. The other half wanted to drain him dry and raise him then and there.   
  
Wrong. So very, very wrong to think these things. Asher was disgusted with himself, yet he could not deny that the thoughts did occur to him, frequently.  
  
The vampire moved his hair back, allowed his scars to become fully visible, and sighed as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Was this his punishment finally being visited upon him for failing to save her? Had Julianna sent an emissary to make sure he did not heal, that his suffering continued after he tried to assuage the pain?   
  
No. She was so sweet and caring, he could not imagine her doing such. Anyone else, perhaps, but not her. Not his beloved.  
  
His eyes moved from his reflection to a painting. She was beautiful, smiling softly, love shining from face. "Où nous apporte-t-il, mon coeur?" He had never told Jean-Claude the entire truth, why his hatred burned so strong through the centuries. She had been his love, his human servant, but even so...   
  
They had been so happy that morning before the Church came.  
  
Julianna had been with child.


	10. Wheel of Morality

 

 

Bacon.  Eggs.  Biscuits.  Buffy's mouth watered.  They were back in the kitchen like room, various breakfast scents mixing with the pop of frying grease, watching a woman working at the stovetop.  Oh, Buffy knew just what was going on, knew it was yet another ploy, but for the moment she didn't care.

"Not too long a wait, I hope?"  The woman asked with a motherly gaze, tiny wrinkles forming at the corner of her eyes and mouth.  She set down a platter of crispy bacon and fresh, steaming scrambled eggs beside the bowl of biscuits already waiting on the table.  Tempting, very tempting, but as Buffy moved for the butter tin and reached past the dishtowel keeping the biscuits warm and fresh she couldn't help but feel a flicker of resentment.

This female werewolf had nothing on Joyce Summers and the Waffles of Wonder.  She didn't know why the woman was even trying. 

"Oh, dear, let me help you..."  The older woman leaned forward and lifted the massive crock pitcher thing of syrup to pour over Willow's own biscuits.  The witches eyes were wide as the container was taken from her, sticky sweetness all over her too-big sleeves from where they had dragged through a pool of it.  The red head seemed shocked at first, then offended.

A quick glance at Oz showed the younger wolf to be thoughtful, and Buffy imagined he was debating if he wanted to try that weird Were thing that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.  It had certainly put Jason off balance, but this woman was older.  Seasoned.  Buffy got the feeling a hurricane could blow through and her only concern would be if the cows were upset. 

She could totally see Mrs. Moony on a farm.

Buffy shoved a yolk dripping fork into her mouth and chewed.  The longer they stayed the harder it would be to leave.  If she was honest with herself the idea had some appeal.  She was tired of being the Chosen One.  Tired of being the first and last line of defense.  This world wasn't... it wasn't in constant jeopardy.  She didn't have to go out slaying vampires every night, as her mother once said, in a fruitless effort toward winning an impossible war. 

Buffy watched as Oz sopped up syrup, honey, and yolk with a biscuit before shoving it into his mouth.  His other hand went back to the bowl but instead of slicing the bit of bread in half and buttering it, the biscuit vanished beneath the table. 

All she wanted was to keep her friends safe. 

"So when is this Big Wolf guy coming over?"  She asked while munching on some bacon, elbow on table and chin propped in a free palm.  "I mean, I'm a busy girl.  I got pedicures and such to get to."

Xander nearly choked on the glass of milk he was drinking.

"I still don't see why he needs to talk to Oz."  Willow grumbled quietly as she speared at her eggs.  "We've done just fine on our own."

The woman smiled tiredly and took a seat with a fresh mug of coffee steaming in her hands.  Buffy wanted it but this woman, like her own mother, felt that the drink was too strong for growing girls.  It was highly irritating and made the slayer want to disregard everything that came out of her mouth.  It wasn't like she was going to grow a whole lot, anyway.  She knew this from experience.  It wasn't fair.  Everyone else in her family was tall...er.

"It is mostly a formality,"  The woman explained while waving a hand over her cup to cool the drink.  "No matter your age, you must introduce yourself when you cross into another Pack's territory.  It prevents certain misunderstandings."

Oz stared at her over his mound of eggs and bacon, skepticism clear.  The other wolf faltered, pleasant expression melting, and matched the stare.  It wasn't challenging but confused.  "Surely you know this?  Its very basic, didn't you learn anything from your Pack?"

The silence that descended on the table was broken only by forks scraping plates.  Buffy felt a flicker of glee as she watched the formerly unflappable woman's eyes widen marginally and her nostrils flare, tension building behind her gray eyes.  The scoobies had agreed on two things when they landed in this world: Stay together, Stay Silent.  Tell no one about their origins.  It would lead to uncomfortable questions that they didn't have satisfactory answers to.  Finally, Oz opened with a loaded statement of his own.  He was good at those.  "Define Pack."

The lady took a deep breath.  "...how long have you been infected, dear?"

Oz looked to Buffy.  She shrugged.  They had asked the same question at That Place and seemed to think it strange Oz lasted as long as he did.  It wasn't like shooting a tranquilizer gun was all that hard..."I think," He glanced upwards in thought.  "A year and half, maybe a bit longer?"

The woman made a sound that was something between a squeak and snarl.  "Over a year?"  She reached out then, eyes softening, and Oz froze as her hand gripped his shoulder.  "I'm so sorry."  Oz arched an eyebrow and pointedly glanced at her hand.  She let go, cool composure leaking back into her.  "Will you children be all right?  I need to make a call..."

"I think we can handle the eggs if they get a little rowdy."  Buffy assured her, punctuating the statement with a splat of yellow and white second helpings.  She sprinkled pepper over her non-conceived chickens and waited for the footsteps to retreat, taking a nod from Oz to mean the woman was out of earshot, though that didn't take into account any other listeners that may be lurking around corners.  "What was that about?"

The werewolf shrugged, preferring to pile his breakfast into a some kind of burger.  Buffy stood and headed toward the fridge. Xander noticed her give a quick jerk of the head and silently joined her by the counters to catalog the contents of the kitchen.  "So,"  He asked casually while turning the dial on the electric stove top.  "Bit clumsy this morning, Wills."

The red head pouted petulantly while she shifted the sticky remains of her meal around the plate.  "Its 'snot my fault, I don't see why she had to do that..."  Frustrated at lack her lack of success cleaning off the borrowed sleeve Willow gave up and rolled them up to her elbows.  "I was just startled, is all."

"About what?"  Oz questioned as he caught an apple Buffy had thrown over her shoulder from where she was rifling through a fruit drawer.

Buffy paused to listen as her best female friend tried to explain her feelings.  There were the customary starts and stops, and a splurge of incomprehensible Willow-Babble, until finally the witch just sighed and dropped her forehead to the table.  "I don't know, okay?  This isn't, isn't home, and so many things feel different.  Sometimes, I get these chills, like someone is walking over my grave."  She wanted to say more, her emotion filled eyes reflected that, but she didn't dare. 

The slayer shuddered and shut the fridge door, passing Xander the last of the eggs she thought she could get away with, and turned back to the table.  "Well, whatever it is, we'll figure it out.  Together."  The memory of dirt beneath her nails, of lungs that had ceased functioning, of water and indescribable hunger played over her mind.

* * *

  
She was wrapped in a shield of soft warmth, and she didn't want to leave it.  Anita drifted back to the waking world with a whimper and a groan.  Her eyes peeked open for the barest second before snapping shut at the mid-morning sun coming in through the kitchen window.  For the third time in her life there was a conga line dancing through her skull, and if she ever found the inventor of maracas she was going to kill him and his parents and his grandparents _just to be sure_.

When she shifted from her uncomfortable position the shield of warmth slid sideways exposing her skin to the elements, and though it was always warm in the summer her air conditioning was top of the line.  Anita groped for the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders as she walked shakily from the table.  Her sluggish brain longed to return to sleep but her bladder was holding her hostage.  She sniffed at the blanket, wondering where it came from, and the soft scent of vanilla answered her.

When had Nathaniel gotten in?  She didn't remember the door opening, but lycanthropes could be really quiet when they wanted to... especially the pard... cat like, pardon the pun.

Once at the bathroom door Anita fumbled with the knob and stumbled in.  She looked in the mirror, appalled, and reached for the mouthwash.  As the Executioner swished the burning minty liquid around her mouth, she couldn't imagine anyone fearing her.  This, she mused, is what sends vampires running and lycanthropes crying for their mommies.  A five foot two, messy haired, red-eyed woman who can never get a full night's sleep.

She spit.

"Well, Blake, what are you going to do?"  She asked her mirror self while snatching up a comb in an attempt to enforce some order on her hair.  "We got kids that need... something.  We got evil mad scientists running about."  She sighed, tossing the comb into the sink and pressed a hand to her forehead as her headache spiked from the rough treatment on her tangled hair and the unwelcome mental reminders of Jean-Claude, Asher, and Richard.  "And a love polygon that will not be going away anytime soon."

She loved her boys, all of them, from Richard to Jean-Claude and everyone in between.  She did.  She couldn't just choose one no matter how much she wished it was that easy.  Emotions are never easy.  Sometimes Edward, for all his gruff inhumanity, was worth envy.  What if she just retreated into that cold dark place inside and never came out?  What if she just hunted and killed and lived in a world where love and sex were as meaningless as bank holidays?  A physical need, no different than eating or sleeping or pissing... speaking of...

Better.  Anita was rinsing her hands when there was a knock at the door.  "Anita?"  The voice was soft but with an underlining strength.  "Are you in there?"

The woman tied her hair back and opened the door, surprised.  "Vivian?  What are you doing here?"

The other woman stood, not meeting her eyes, but instead seemed to examine everything else.  "I wanted to catch you before you went out.  I guess I shouldn't have worried..."  She sniffed delicately, pupils dilating as she caught the lingering smell of vodka laced fruit in the air.  There was only so much Listerine could do.

Anita stared at her, one hand coming up to massage her temples, and sighed.  "Is something wrong?  Is someone in the pack hassling you?"

"No.  Not recently."  Vivian smoothed her lavender skirt.  "Zane called about the kids-"

The vampire hunter groaned.  "Did he?  Because I have no clue what to do with them.  Jean-Claude says the system will ping them the instant their names are in and they'll get, they'll get..."  She didn't want to say it.  Didn't want to think it, but she couldn't deny the possibility.  Governments had all sorts of skeletons in the closet.  Who knew how far some people would go to keep them in there?

"I just wanted to offer my apartment, if, you know, they needed someplace to stay.  Or anything, really.  I'm good with kids."  Her head was still down, not willing to risk even a hint of challenging a recently awoken and hung over Nimir-Ra, and but her voice was steady.  Soothing.

Anita felt her lips quirk as she looked at the mocha-skinned beauty.  Good with kids?  She practically was a kid.  "Really?"

The little leopard gave a sharp nod.  "It's summer, anyway."  Seeing no reaction from her pard leader Vivian's lips pursed.  "So I don't have a lot of work."

"I'll keep that in mind."  Anita moved around the other woman and back to the kitchen.  She needed to clean up her mess- or had Nathaniel already done it when he came by?  Regardless, she wanted coffee.  A fresh pot was warm and waiting for her as well as a bottle of painkillers.  No, things weren't that drastic, not yet.  She had made her bed, and now she would suffer through it.

Vivian had followed her into the kitchen.  "You have... messages.  Want me to play them?"

She didn't want her to.  She wanted to crawl to her bed and sleep off her hangover, but needs must.  Anita called the affirmative as she poured herself a cup of java, so black it was almost a light absorbing syrup, and listened to the many messages as Vivian took a jug of apple juice from the pantry. 

"Wait, go back."  Anita blinked and quickly stepped over by the machine, rewound, and played it again.  She downed the rest of her coffee in one go and snatched up the file of papers that she'd left on the table the night before last.  "Oh, Hell."

She needed to get out to Saint Peters.

* * *

  
The machine continued to make an annoying, loud, chugging sound as the big scanner panels rotated around his body.  If he closed his eyes he could pretend they were in some kind of factory or even the set of some kind of Sci-Fi movie, not a hospital.  It wasn't that he had any phobias of the places; mostly he disliked the smells.  Impersonal.  Uncaring.  Cold. 

Rather like an empty refrigerator.  One that was waiting for the dead bodies to be stored within.  Perhaps that was a little too morbid, well, he was a native Sunnydaler.  It was hard not to be.

The intercom crackled.  "That's it.  You're completely clean." 

Oz felt muscles he didn't even know he had relax as the surface he was lying on began to move out of the machine.  He heard the door open as his friends came in, smiling, and Buffy was holding a bag of Tootsie-Pops victoriously.  "Under an X-Ray, we all look pretty much the same."  The blonde spoke sagely as she lifted the bag of sweets toward the wolf.

"I'm just glad we won't have to worry about alien parasites bursting out of the Oz-man's chest.  That's always a bitch to clean up."  Xander commented happily as he rolled his own sucker around in his mouth.

The wererat doctor followed the children in, clipboard at her side, and smiled.  "You're in rather better condition than expected, even with the rest.  That's good.  If you'll just follow me...?"

Like ducklings following their mother, the scoobies trailed after Lillian.  They passed several other people in the halls, patients and medical staff alike, and Oz wondered why they weren't at the clinic they had gone to before.  That place hadn't smelled as sterile.  He could have learned to like it, crisp and clean with an ever-present energy just waiting to ignite.  The big hospital they were now in was a lot like Sunnydale General, but unlike that one-stop-shop for all your barbecue fork aftermath needs this place was distant. 

Or maybe it was just him.

"I'm glad you don't have a computer chip by your spine."  Buffy whispered as she slowed to fall back and walk beside him.  "That's what they were worried about, the rats.  Apparently some of the other escapees had them." 

Oz nearly had to suppress a shudder.  Spines were bad news, if they had managed to get one in him it would have been murder getting it out.  Possibly literal.  Any attempt by lycanthropes themselves to dig it out would result in paralysis or death if their healing couldn't fix the damage fast enough.  The silver would just sit in their bodies, a constant pain and itch, a silent taunting of what they were and just how helpless That Place made them.

It made Oz grateful the personnel of the were prison had been afraid of him.  Sure, they didn't revel much when they talked, but he could smell it on them a mile away.  The general fear that wafted off the guards always spiked when they passed his room.  Cell.  Box.

"Huh."  They stopped at an office door on the, honey-brown eyes glanced at the nearby doorplate, third floor and entered.  It smelled like rats and pineapple so as Oz removed the wrapper from his Tootsie-Pop he surmised it was their doctor's personal office.  There was a mini-fridge by the trashcan and sitting in a chair was another rat with a newspaper.  Oz didn't recognize him.

"The Ulfric will be here shortly,"  She paused and went to a drawer.  "You don't mind if I take another blood sample? The previous ones were contaminated."

Buffy's hazel eyes took in the rubber strap and syringe with apprehension, lips pursed, and shook her head while stepping back.  "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

"I suppose..."  The doctor sighed.  Oz felt a brief pain in his chest as he thought of his mother and father, probably still traveling the world, not even knowing he was missing.  She turned to him.  "But I must insist on yours, young man.  And yours."  The last bit was directed toward Xander who was clicking a pen he had found somewhere and staring out the window.

Sure the request was strange, but not too strange.  He didn't see any reason not to let the woman take another sample.  It wasn't like he was going to miss it.

* * *

  
The lights were dimmed in the office as Rafael worked.  He had reports to read through and forms to sign off on.  Running the Dark Crown Clan was a full-time job, compared to some Rodere, but Rafael wouldn't have it any other way.  He remembered the previous Rat King, very few in the high echelons of the hierarchy did not, and he remembered how it had been.  Slavery to that undead child.  Forced to submit to her amusement.  Dishonor.

And he had put up with it.  Let it happen so long as she and the baby were untouched, but then she left him and all bets were off.

The St. Louis Rodere fared much better, despair and coldness thawed out of the members, and he was left at the reigns.  The rats did not have the pure power that some other lycanthropes had, certainly not the numbers, but skill more than made up for that failing.  They were their own community and business.  Their livelihood did not depend on staying in the closet.  Where other weres found difficulty in their lycanthropy being known, the mercenaries thrived.

Rafael found himself smiling as he finished reading Kenny's report of the Mall Incident, subtitled: How The Pomme Lost The Kids.  It was an entertaining read.  Evidently the little witch and her wolf gave them some trouble, but were found all the same.  The Latino man wished he had been there, but his duties prevented it.  And the King did not babysit.  Perhaps he should start?

Rafael's gaze drifted to the single framed picture on his desk.  A young boy posing, bored, in sunday best on a chair next to a ridiculously sized fake crayon.

His office door opened revealing a middle aged blonde woman in a dress suit, hair bound back in a bun.  Silver hair sticks glinted in the lowlight, emergency weapons should the need arise, and Ginger gave a nod of acknowledgment.  "Rom, I have one of the new recruits here.  Shall I send him in?"

Rafael slid the report into the drawer he decided to keep for all things child related.  It was already filled with some disturbing information on the little werewolf: he hadn't decided if he should share it with the other Alpha's of the city.  "Go ahead."

The man that entered did not sit at the heavy leather seat available.  He stood, at parade rest, looking straight ahead, non-confrontational.  Staring into another's eyes was a mistake often made by the newly infected.  Rafael wondered if this new rat was aware of that.  He surreptitiously scented the air.  Mint, and something a bit more sour.

The Rat King reached for another file largely empty and ran his eyes over it.  An escapee.  Five years in the safehouse.  Isolation level.  By all rights the dark eyed man standing before him, Rafael could feel his beast turning impatiently, should be comatose or a gibbering wreck.   A pair of dog tags hung from his neck, dull and worn, like the rest of him.  When he had time to recover his personal effects, Rafael didn't know.  Unless he had enough control and forethought to go after them as soon as the gate was lifted.

Interesting.  Promising. 

"Our metabolisms may be able to handle drinking on the job, but it sends the wrong message to our clients."  Rafael voiced his suspicions as he leaned back in his chair.

"I'll keep that in mind, Sir."

"Andrea explained what we are.  Who I am?"

"Yes, Sir.  You are the Commander-in-Chief of the Dark Crown."  As he spoke mint wafted off his breath and there was a blankness in the eyes.  Rafael had seen it before.  Trapped behind enemy lines, tortured for information, and the mind locks down.  Name, rank, and serial number.  This rat had gone a step further: everything was scrambled until it fell into place as he would have it.  For all he appeared sane and whole, he was walking a very fine line.

"You worked with the Special Forces."

"Correct.  And I'm a fair hand with a knife, Sir."

Yes.  A would-be taxidermist if he hadn't been sent into the safehouse after a blown mission resulting in his lycanthropy.  "Welcome to the Rodere, Mr. Lavelle."

* * *

  
Richard had always felt protective of his students.  It was one of the few things he liked about being a lycanthrope and an alpha.  His beast, when in a room filled with children, always calmed.  When the cheerleaders came in ponytails swaying, gum smacking, giggling, there was a warm glow in his chest.  When he watched a student struggle over a question and then finally get it there was a rush of contentment and pride at his kids succeeding that made everything seem brighter and better.  He loved teaching.  Loved it. 

Even when bad things happened.  Even when the little goths came in with split lips or the outsiders in the back dragged in depression and hopelessness like lead weights, he still cherished every moment.  And he made calls.  He took action.  Each and every student that came into his classroom left it whole and if not fulfilled, just a little bit wiser.  He made damn sure of that.

Which was why he couldn't for the life of him figure out just who the hell had been in charge of these little miracles before him.  What kind of person leaves a newly infected lycanthrope out on their own?  Even the worst of pack leaders made sure to round up everyone who might possibly catch the virus and impart basic lycanthrope culture.  Sometimes, knowing just who to greet and who not to could be the difference between life and death.

Richard stared at the young wolf, remnants of baby fat clinging stubbornly to his cheeks while hinting at a future aristocratic slimness, and gaped.  Laura had called him, told him the child knew nothing of Pack, but he had assumed she meant that he didn't understand the nomenclature.  Some Lukoi referred to themselves as family, he knew, to better conceal what they were in mixed company.  "So then, you caught it from a vaccine?"  It was what had happened to him.  It was possible.

But the other wolf's lips quirked as if amused.  "No.  I caught it the way you always catch it."  He opened his mouth, bared his teeth, and snapped his jaws shut with a click.

Richard felt a wave of anger and frustration coming on.  Damn Anita.  He never had so much trouble handling his emotions until they formed the Triumvirate, and it just kept getting harder to control every time they shared power.  "Then they should have found you and took care of you." 

Oz simply shrugged.  "Dude, Jordy was like, six months old.  I wouldn't expect him to be potty-trained let alone care for me."  Richard felt his heart skip a beat.  A six month old werewolf?  Impossible, and yet he could sense no falsehood.  Just where the hell did these kids grow up?

Richard pulled out a seat in the office, looked out toward the afternoon sun high in the sky, and sighed.  By the time he looked back the children were already immersed in a game of hangman.  Shang-Da peered at the piece of paper thoughtfully before offering 'N'.  The red headed girl grinned and filled in a single spot on her scrap paper.

The Ulfric shook his head.  "But how did you handle the full moon?  Who helped you gain control?"

The children paused in their discussion of just what the mystery words were.  Green eyes grew impossibly wide as they turned to him, mouth open in surprise, and it was almost like the little girl was one of his.  That's it, he wanted to encourage her, you've almost got it. 

But what was she getting?

It was the little wolf who spoke, barely more than a whisper, and he didn't meet Richards eyes, but the Ulfric could feel the beast bubbling to the surface in that little body.  "...that's possible?"  Amber animal eyes peeked through lowered lashes and Richard felt a rush of power.  Blood and violence.  Mother of God, Jason hadn't been exaggerating.

Richard's own beast perked up, growling low, but it wasn't a challenge, not yet.  It didn't feel threatened.  Merely cautious, interested, curious.  Wary.

"Have you... killed anyone?"  The question was backed up by steel.

The boy smiled, eyes loosing that dangerous wild quality, and answered.  "Do zombies count?  I got out of my cage once, and everyone was busy..."

Got. Out. Of. His. Cage. Every instinct in him insisted Richard disregard Jean-Claude's arguments.  It was the summer, who was going to notice if a junior high-school teacher adopted a young werewolf and his friends?  Surely no one would care if he spontaneously found a bigger house, became a single father to children that matched the descriptions released by the police. 

A growl rumbled low in Richards chest.  He had the sudden urge to grab the kids and just sit on them like a mother hen.  Anything that came close would find its head on the ground by its feet.

* * *

  
Walking into St. Peters, one wouldn't expect it to be the center of a massive conspiracy and consequent cover up.  The floors were shiny marble, the walls were white-washed, and the lights were that blinding brilliance that gave even normal people headaches after prolonged exposure.  In short, it was like every other hospital type place if you ignored the broken doors, occasional flickering light, and yards of police tape roping it off from general public. 

What lycanthropes had remained during the break-out, either too drugged to do anything or too far gone to care, had already been relocated.

As Anita subconsciously hurried through the halls she zipped her jacket.  The place was cold, unwelcoming, and every last beast within her knew it.  Bad things happened here.  She wanted to go back out to her car and get her salt canister and a lighter but she didn't think the orderlies or the police would take too kindly to her burning down the house.  Federal Marshal or no.  Her hand brushed against the spot her Firestar waited, concealed, and she smiled in relief at Clive Perry's head as it appeared from a stairwell.  "Anita!"  She'd never been happier to see a friendly face.

"Perry.  I got Zebrowski's message."  She made a beeline for the man.  "Is it really off the books, or are they just saying that?"

"It definitely wasn't official."  The black man stated seriously as he turned running a hand along his head.  "Dolph's not going to be happy you're here."

She stared at him.

He sighed.  "The woman in charge, Margaret Walsh, she's done a bunk.  So have a few of her assistants.  But they ARE human.  Not your jurisdiction."

"I'm a Federal Marshal.  It's mine if I make it mine."  They came to the end of the stairs and it was something out of a low budget horror movie.  There were gouges in the walls where claws had crashed through, the smell of cleaner in the air and the spots of stained blood that would never entirely fade.  Some doors looked torn straight off their hinges.  Even the steel ones that bore dents from being hit.  "Forensics come through already?"

"No."  Perry was upset.  His hands were in his pockets and his head was hunched down.  She could practically feel the frustration leaking from him.  Not a newbie no more.  "Feds did it.  Not you, 'course."

"You would think they didn't want us to solve this shit storm."

"If only-"

"Perry.  Blake."  Storr called as he came walking out of door tucking a notepad in his coat pocket.  "What are you doing here?"

"It's my right."  Anita answered, mentally preparing for a verbal sparring match.  She stopped as a serious faced Zebrowski exited the same room Storr had come from. 

He looked at her, glasses reflecting in the harsh light, and said in total deadpan, "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.  We must be cautious."  A pin could have dropped.  A cricket chirped.  The famed vampire executioner had been expecting anything but that.  It sounded vaguely familiar.  Zebrowski turned from her to Dolph.  "We need her, Sir.  Whatever the hell that was in there, Anita needs to make sure the shifters know."

Dolph looked like he wanted to argue but he swallowed his anger, kept it to a low simmer and gestured.  She felt like a Lilliputian in the land of giants as the men bookended her and they entered the room, no, lab together.  A shattered tank sat to one side still leaking a thick green liquid.  Steel tables bolted to the floor popped up here and there, saws and various surgical implements, and the hairs on Anita's arms stood at attention.  This was the reason people didn't like going to the doctor.

She doubted apples would have helped the poor bastards brought here.

Anita detected the faintest trace of blood.  "They didn't get to finish wiping down this room."

"No, they didn't."  Was that pride she heard in Storr's voice?  Couldn't be.

She'd been keeping a box of surgical gloves in her, surprise surprise, glove box.  Anita took the pair from her pocket and snapped them on as she circled around the room.  Her baseline senses had grown sharper since she'd bonded with Richard and Jean-Claude, and while she wasn't even close to shapeshifter level she could tell something was different.  The air was different.  She couldn't be sure, but she thought she heard a faint hum.  Like a computer or some other kind of machinery. 

Anita moved along the wall, tapping, thinking, hating the bitch that had gotten away with all this.  "Bingo."  She pressed tiles until she found a pressure sensitive one and a door rotated out.

The men raised eyebrows in surprise and appreciation.  "Well then,"  Zebrowski whistled.  "Shall we see what's behind door number one?"

Anita wasn't the only one to draw her weapon as they began their exploration.

* * *

  
Silent tears tracked down Anya's face as she walked.  The Mayor had Ascended but it hadn't helped him.  Turning into a big ass snake never helps, not in the long run, and the glass smooth gaping hole in the ground where the High School should have been was testament to his demise.  They won.  They beat him.  Mere children armed with sticks and a bit of fire did what only Mother Earth had before accomplished.

Yet they paid in their lives. 

Anya's arm shook with the effort to hold in her emotions.  Now wasn't the time for it.  She had business to attend to.  Important business that could not wait. 

Images overlapped in her mind.  The boy, the idiot man that brought her to this god forsaken town in the first place, wouldn't be banished.  No matter how far she ran or how much she drank his memory played over in her head.  Clothed and not.  Finally, she'd given in and returned to Sunnydale.  But he was dead.  Taken by the dimensional nexus, most likely ripped into component atoms, and Xander was not coming back.  Not this time. 

A wide berth formed around her as the former demon walked through the hospital.  Her grief was almost tangible as she clutched at her silk purse with one hand and her wrist with the other in an effort to stabilize herself.  She'd  cast more mortal spells in three days than she had in three hundred years.  She'd cornered mortal and immortal alike, heedless of the danger, until she got her answers.  Or the best answers she could get.  It was impossible to accurately predict anything on a Hellmouth.

One piece of information was solid, though.  One piece that explained why she couldn't forget the stupid little moron with the dark eyes and hair that was such a damn contrast from what she remembered.  Blue and light brown.  He had died fighting a dragon that had been eating their herds to such an extent if it continued the village would have likely starved.  Killed it with his suicidal attack, jumping right in its mouth and tearing out the throat even as it burned him to a crisp.

And he was Gone.  For over a thousand years he was gone, her first true love, her bloody -soul mate- was gone leaving her to Olaf, the cheating scum.  Then he had the gall, the indecency to be reborn, reincarnated, however you phrase it, get her attention, and then die all over again.

_Bastard_.

Finally her trek was over.  A heart monitor beeped steadily beside the bed of the brunette woman lying in a coma like state.  Anya sneered at her limp form and entered the room, tears slowly drying, as she shut the door.  Wilkins was dead, nothing more than bits of meat scattered across the multiverse, but his cronies remained. 

The former northwoman took a tarnished athame from her purse, she had called in too many favors to get it, and an enchanted glass orb.  Spirit Vault for the _Undead_?  Please.  She had been around when the damn things had been envisioned and they could do so much more than serve in one little ritual.  Any demon mage worth their salt could en-soul a half-breed. 

Placing the orb carefully on the softly rising and falling chest of the prone woman, Anya raised her blade while murmuring in her mother tongue with loving inflection.  Red stained the formerly white sheets as a pale golden glow lit up the room throwing everything into contrast.  Delicately wiping the ritual knife on the foot of the bed, the only part unmarred by the growing pool of blood, Anya took up her now occupied spirit vault. 

"Hello, Faith."  She crooned.  "I don't know if you remember me, but you took my Xander away.  Well, maybe not you specifically, but I know what you did to him and you're the only one left.  Congratulations.  You will never know Heaven or Hell. You remain, here, stuck in Limbo unable to see or touch anything. Only listen... I hope you don't enjoy it."

In the corner, half hidden by the shadows cast from the light of the imprisoned soul, a scarred beauty smiled at the return of her best friend.  Anyanka -no- Aud, Vengeance Witch, was back. 

Two hours away in an asylum, a twelve year old girl woke screaming as her dreams became plagued with monsters bearing sharp teeth, glowing eyes, and deformed faces.


	11. Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xander confronts a clown in this chapter, as it amuses me. Unlike last time, he is significantly smaller than he was the last time.

The foursome descended the secret passage with their only illumination being the flashlight Perry held in line to his gun. Anything he aimed at would be in the perfect position to be shot. Anita's eyes, enhanced as they were by vampire marks and metaphysical spirit beasts, had little trouble discerning the disturbing path.

At least, Anita thought, this place is wheelchair friendly. The floor was composed of the same tile as the rest of the complex but at a gentle slope. She could easily see someone being strapped to a gurney and sent down, lost like so many blips in the paperwork, while the other physicians went on their merry way. Something with claws had scrabbled down the hall, and she could spot dark dried drops standing testament to the creature's condition when it had passed through.

She tightened her grip on the Browning and called back, "Stay sharp. We might have an injured shifter down here." Her only answer was the sound of magazines being switched out as steel bullets were replaced with silver. Part of her wanted to say something, to rebuke them, but she didn't. Her own clips were filled with alternating silver and Glazer Safety Rounds (some days Anita never knew if she was going to be up against vampires, lycans, or zombies) so there wasn't much room for debate. The one glance back she'd given the boys had shown her eyes filled with hard determination and barely hidden disgust.

They emerged from the corridor into a dimly lit lab, though it did not stay dim for long as automatic motion detectors picked up their movement and raised the lights to a painful brilliance.

Anita wished it had stayed dim.

They spread out with Zebrowski and Perry drifting apart toward two mysterious doors, one of which had the metal peeled back, guarded by electronic keypads, though all eyes were inevitably drawn to the corpse propped up against a desk. Whatever happened in the chamber air conditioning and ventilation remained excellent, she almost couldn't smell the early stages of the decomposition process, but he had clearly been there for a while. Intestines spilled out on the floor like prechewed spaghetti. A pair of small chic glasses dangled from one ear. Great gouges had been taken from his arms and a calf looked like so much raw meat where something had gnawed on it. His once white coat marked him as a doctor or assistant. A high-tech taser lay broken only a few feet away.

He had tried to defend himself, and failed. The Executioner was surprised to find a distinct lack of pity within her. Looking around the trashed room it was easy to imagine Nathaniel, Jason, or even Irving being trapped down here.

Dolph crouched by the body and used a long Q-tip he had found in one of the few unbroken jars to lift an ID badge from the man's coat pocket. Way to be resourceful. "James Fredricks, Assistant." He placed the card on a blood free patch of floor and stood, his massive frame nothing compared to the aura of carefully maintained control around him, and snapped off one bloodstained glove to reach for his cell phone.

As he called into RPIT headquarters for two full teams of back-up Anita carefully crossed the room. Shattered glass was everywhere, like someone decided to use it for confetti, and it would be just her luck to step on a piece and have it go through her Nikes and into her feet.  The mysterious metal door looked like something had punched through, and it reminded her of the only other door she'd seen that happen to. An uncontrolled revenant vampire had managed the same feat: gone through silver, blessed crosses, and inches of steel. Anita took a deep calming breath.

The coppery tang of blood was on the air, but it could have simply been the lingering scent of Fredricks' remains. Dark eyes took in the sharp shredded metal of the door. Anita touched an edge and rubbed the substance that came off between her thumb and forefinger. The green tint showed up against the white of her gloves.

She heard Zebrowski's shoes crunch over some glass as he came to stand beside her, gun at the ready, and ask, "Going down the rabbit hole, Alice?"

It was so sudden she didn't even have time to shout warning as her senses picked up life. Hot and angry. The lights in the distant hall flickered as a green skinned form came through, flesh catching on the jagged teeth of the door, tearing, and Anita fired. The body shuddered as her silver bullet tore through it and gave a pain filled roar as her second took out a massive chunk of what the vampire hunter hoped was a rib cage.

The Executioner's gun was batted away as the beast kept coming, unstoppable, unmindful of everything but the short dark haired human before it. Sharp blood tinted teeth - _fangs_ - went for her neck, but all Anita could hear was the desperate pounding of her own heart.  Futile.  Single minded madness filled the creatures slitted eyes.

A gun shot echoed in her ears as blood gushed from the sudden neck stump and over her face in time to the dying heart beat. Anita pushed the body away from her and scrabbled up off the floor from where the thing's tackle had carried them. Even lycanthrope healing couldn't fix decapitation. She winced as she stood, her back screaming in protest, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. She'd slid along the impeccably waxed floor and picked up glass like a wax strip did body hair.

"How many times do I have to tell you to watch your back?" Dolph muttered softly from where he stood, gun raised, by the computer terminal he had been attempting to gain information from. The screen had cracked at some point and everything was tinted red and green. More than likely they would need to take the hard drive down to the labs and have the tech people pick over it.

The detective shifted his grip from two hands to one while keeping his weapon at the ready. Anita didn't remember anyone telling her RPIT upgraded to explosive rounds, but she was glad they had... or maybe it was just Storr. Eagle Scout all the Way.

Perry had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it like a true gentleman. "At least once more, I suppose." Anita grumbled as she wiped the blood from her face. Fear spiked through her body. Had she swallowed any? Gotten it in her eyes? Her arms? Anita dropped the once white cloth on a overturned cabinet and checked her arms. The jacket was still covering them, so no exposure there. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks for small favors.

In her line of work she'd been exposed to several strains of lycanthropy. Had several close calls. Still, she could say she was not a shifter. She did not get furry once a month. She was still human, or as human as any animator could be.

She hoped the third time wasn't the charm.

"Looks like some kind of reptile." Zebrowski commented from where he stood by the body.  He was pressing a hand to the right of his torso and the tightness of hidden pain lurked around his eyes. "What do you think, Alice?"

Anita took off her jacket, it wasn't salvageable, and shook out the little glass bits that had gotten caught in it. Zebrowski whistled at the dots of blood bleeding through her blouse. "If I have to be Alice, Dolph gets to be the Queen of Hearts."

"King." The man corrected as he pulled his phone out for a second time and ordered a paramedic team.

"Then Zebrowski is the Mad Hatter." Perry pitched in from where he had taken guard across from the second unexplored door in case some other monster came barreling out. "Can I be the Chesire Cat?"

Zebrowski smiled and nudged the body with a finger. Body. Only seconds ago it had been a living, breathing, person.  God. "You don't have the ambiguity to be him."

Perry pouted.

This was the elite crime fighting force that was RPIT? A group that looked at crime scenes and waded through body parts flinging them back and forth as some did insults and witty banter. Well, maybe not just as easily. Anita shook her head and forced herself to look down at the person she just helped kill.

Hardened, green skin covered the entire body of a partially shifted lycanthrope. Female. Sharp claws extended from oddly jointed fingers like a demented manicurist's attempt at a cleanup. A long green crocodile tail trailed along the floor from where it had sent Zebrowski crashing into the wall. Blood still oozed from where Anita's silver bullet had tore through the main mass of the body, and another one had buried itself in the shoulder bone. Perry's? Lungs and other soft tissue could be seen giving the occasional quiver within the chest cavity as they turned the dead woman over.

She could also see the gleam of circuitry.

Anita wanted to throw up.

She'd seen lycanthrope healing push bullets straight out of the flesh. For those things to remain embedded, they had to have silver coating, and to have so much of it even the strongest shifter would have gone mad. What had happened to this woman? Had she come in expecting help only to be poked and prodded and turned into some kind of science-fair reject?

"I've got a question." Zebrowski whispered. Despite his laid back tone, Anita could practically feel the tension in his body. "If that's Eve, where's Adam?"

"Eve?"

He pointed to the nape of what remained of the neck where a tattoo had been placed. S032, EVE.

"Don't be so chauvinistic," Anita muttered. "Just because there was an Eve, doesn't mean they made an Adam, too." She wished she believed her own words.

* * *

During a prolonged dance with death, there are times when the dancer wakes up one morning with the instinctual feeling that today will be the day. No second chance, no cavalry, no last minute reprieve, just one final number before the Lady gives her curtsy and sweeps you off your feet into the abyss. Xander had expected his time to come on Big Snake Day.

The night before graduation he had stayed up listening to the best of the Eighties, sharpening blades, and mass producing stakes all while visions of vivisection danced in his head. Xander giblets going down demony throats while the rest of the class screamed and fought in a, if he did say so himself, dramatic and extremely futile fashion.

And yet when Anya came to him his first response was the negative. He wasn't going to leave his friends to fight and die alone. And, somehow, they had survived.

Waking up in the caverns earlier that morning had filled Xander with a similar sense of oncoming dread. Not that he didn't feel a constant fear anyway, his survival sense was well tuned if ignored, but it had been singing a sweet melody all during breakfast and after. The nice doctor lady's request briefly made him wonder if he had some terminal illness that his parents never bothered telling him about.

Now, approaching the Circus in daylight from the front instead of the side door with the Stairwell of Doom, wiped all questions pertaining to the reason for Xander's hyped up danger sense from his mind. His feet planted on the asphalt as if they would take root, heedless of the grumbling crowd around them. "Oh. Hell. No." The words gushed out in a whisper of terror.

Willow, bless her Jewish-Wiccan heart, followed his gaze and let out a little 'oh' of understanding. While the garish sign he'd spotted before had been bad enough, like an infected paper cut, this was the whole guillotine coming down for the final act.

Clowns. Disgusting, vile, fanged, spawns of Satan smiled down from the warehouse roof like twisted colorful gargoyles mocking him with their pointed grins. It was wrong on so many levels. Every year Xander had always given his complementary fair tickets to Jesse or Willow, just to avoid any reason to be near the things, and now there they were. Plaster statues, and yet he could swear they were looking at him.

At his soul. Slavering for it.

Willow's hand pulled at his sleeve bringing him back from the edge of madness. Richard had walked closer, eyes showing concern, and asked if everything was okay. No, Xander wanted to say, nothing is okay. We are at a fucking circus. Badness happens at Circus' and this one is just begging Murphy to visit.

Xander didn't say any of that. "Nah." He grinned and looked up into the afternoon sun. It was like a bright cheerful burning ball of gas in the sky. Fire of Heaven. "Just thinking. Can we have some cotton candy?"

The werewolf smiled, though his eyes were filled with more suspicion than cheerfulness, and shook his head. "I think you four have had enough sweets for now. You'll ruin your dinner." He pulled at his shirt to unbutton the top. "But if you're that hungry, I suppose we can get some pretzels or something."

It was only marginally cooler in the warehouse. As the last beams of the sun left his back Xander swallowed and tried to focus on the ground as his girls inched closer. The smell of fruity perfume was a welcome distraction from the barely perceptible scent of death that permeated the place. 

Xander heard childish laughter, and his mind boggled. Why in the seven levels of Hell did parents think it was a good idea to bring their children to places like this? Maybe Buffy was right and they were in some hell dimension. It certainly felt like it.

* * *

Lillian peered into the microscope, fascinated. The patient folder sat open on the counter beside her as she made another note. She checked the RNA sequence of the lycanthropy strain, and it was undoubtedly some variation of wolf, but it was more. There was a tiny deviation she didn't recognize, that didn't match with anything she knew, and it was frightening.

She had exposed samples of Oz's blood to ten different samples, all base human male and female, and in each and every one the virus took over. Entirely. The ratio of infected blood to clean did not seem to matter. Within seconds the entire slide was infected. If the young wolf bit or bled on anyone, Lillian was positive the probability of infection was one hundred percent.

It was unheard of.

Lillian shivered and walked to the closet for the blood drawing equipment. Across the room a trio of interns were huddled around the other boy's blood sample performing tests, DNA sequences and the like, so she didn't want to bother them. What she was learning was too disturbing to release so suddenly. It brought new meaning to the phrase biological warfare.

The graying woman tied off the rubber strap, made a fist, and waited. "Melissa!" She called and the shortest Intern jumped up, short black hair bouncing as she hurried over.

"Yes, Dr. Lillian?" The girl asked meekly. She was a werecrow, still hiding her status, and Lillian had helped her out a few times when her schedule had marked her for a full moon. Lillian held out the syringe and gestured.

Melissa took it and carefully drew the blood causing Lillian to roll her eyes. "That'll be fine, go finish."

The young girl chewed her lip. "Um. Are you sure this isn't a trick assignment?"

"Yes! Just get it done, don't worry about the results, I'll do that." The wererat waved her off while prepping a new slide for the microscope. It was a random fancy, everyone knew once you shifted into full lycanthropy you could not get another strain. Lillian knew this. It was medical and metaphysical fact. Tried and tested.

She poured her own blood onto the side, checked it, then took a pipette of the strange wolf strain and looked into the eyepiece as she dripped it onto the glass. "My God." She watched as the two lycanthropy strains interacted. They were supposed to ignore each other.

They didn't.

The wolf strain, and there was no other word for it, devoured the rat. Lillian sat back on the padded stool, turned to watch the arguing interns, and waited for her heart to resume normality.

* * *

Willow thought it was all a little redundant what with them already being inside a big warehouse. Why not just get rid of the tents and leave the separate rooms? Sure the tents helped the atmosphere, but they didn't help maintain temperature in the least and surely they were some kind of fire hazard? Right? Flammable material and all that...

All thoughts of potential burning were swept away as the kitties came out. The witch's eyes lit up as she sat forward in her seat. Always a great cat lover, once teased about someday being one of the crazy cat-lady's that lurk in the dilapidated old building at the end of the street, Willow squealed as the great spotted cat came out and jumped through a hoop. A FIRE hoop.

As cool as the show was, something tickled at the back of her mind. "He's kind of big for a leopard." Willow commented. In front of her a mother of three turned around with a scowl and raised a finger to her lips sternly. Willow squeaked out an apology.

"That's because he's not really a leopard." One of their escorts whispered while glaring at the back of the mother's head. "He's a lycanthrope."

Willow swiveled around in her seat, hard to do in the packed stands, but she managed. One knee ended up being thrown over Oz's lap and she nearly lost it at the feel of his fingers playing along her leg. It tickled. "You mean he can change whenever he wants to?" She asked, fighting giggles and struggling to keep her voice down. Her mind practically exploded with possibilities.

On the floor the scantily clad ring mistress, a vampire, announced something and a pair of lionesses sauntered out from the draped hall.

Richard, the big bad wolf, was sitting with them. He refused to take them to see the Zombie Raising and hadn't been too happy to hear that Xander had already seen one. Several, actually, and thought it rather gross. Willow didn't mind. The Zombie tent had been striped in dark, moldy colors and just passing by had sent shivers along her skin as the cold remnants of foreign magic brushed her. Besides, she had seen people crawl out of graves before, and didn't understand why anyone would want to watch it when they could be enjoying the antics of the Great Cats.

The Ulfric was watching them with that weird look again. Something moved in his eyes. "Not all. A very small amount cannot shift outside of the full moon, but with time and practice most can. It uses quite a bit of energy to shift to animal and back again, and the majority of therianthropes don't have a reason so." His voice was low and soft. Gentle.

Willow couldn't remember the last time anyone talked to her like that aside from Oz, but there was always a deep passion in her boyfriend. A quiet Love of Life. With Richard there was just the heat. Warmth. But no substance. It was missing something. He was an accretion disk with nothing to accrue on.

Urg. She needed to keep her head out of the Astrophysics Books.

"So, Oz could go all Wolfy whenever he wanted?"

"I don't see why not."

Oz's breathing hitched in her ear. His hand froze over her knee, a source of extra warmth in the already packed tent. Hundreds of bodies squeezed in releasing natural body heat causing blood to boil and tempers to rise. Good gravy, what would it be like for Oz to have control? None of the books back in Sunnydale suggested such a thing were possible, but then they were skewed toward the Council's propaganda, right? Oz had never killed anyone, not even before they started locking him up. Sure he scared lots of people but that was just Oz being playful. Anyone who got to know him knew his sense of humor was a little off.

Willow looked at him, the curve of his cheek was pale and baby-ish, as he watched the lycanthropes down in the ring go through their routine. The light blue coat tails on the vampire whipped around as she spun, holding two massive metal rings for the lions to weave through. They were big enough, small as Willow currently was, to ride. Like long, limber yellow Shetland ponies.

This time Willow's mental image of herself attempting to ride a transformed Oz sent her into hysterics. She barely swallowed her juice in time to avoid choking on it.

The lady from before turned around again, opened her mouth to snap something, and found herself on the receiving end of several glares. Willow could swear the temperature in the room just increased by about ten degrees. Sweat was dripping down her back. "Why don't you turn back around, and watch the show?" A green eyed rat shapeshifter asked nicely. If one counted bared teeth nicely.

The woman swallowed, her throat visibly contracting, and stared hard at the ring with her youngest squirming in discomfort as his mother held him close.

Once again the curtains down on the ring opened, and this time out came a trio of... oh... no... Willow could practically hear Xander's heart rate speed up. Oz shifted beside her, turning to look at their friend, who was beyond pale. The therianthropes with them had stopped their punishing glare at the back of the prissy woman to look on the brunette in concern.

Xander either didn't notice or didn't care. His eyes were locked on the three red nosed menaces in the ring. One of them was riding a dirt bike as the leopard chased it. It turned around and sprayed the great cat with a oversized water gun causing the feline to roll on the ground as if burned.

"...must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear..." Willow could hear Xander mumbling, though he faltered as two of the clowns began working toward the crowd. Why oh why did they have to get a seat so close to the ring? Xander's voice was shaking now, eyes glazed, and the lycanthrope closest to him was reaching out. "...and when it has gone past..."

The clown was staring at them. It squeezed its little yellow horn just as the lycanthrope touched Xander's shoulder. All pretense of control slipped. Xander screamed.

Willow's hands clapped over her ears as she winced. When she looked up, her Xander-shaped friend had vanished leaving a trail of knocked over patrons.

* * *

Buffy could admit there was some appeal to watching large kitties jump around a ring. Still, it wasn't all that interesting and if her one time family outing to Barnum and Baileys back when she really was ten told her anything it was that her attention span would run out after the first five minutes. Possibly sooner depending on the variety of kitties on the floor. The more colors the longer her attention lasted.

Either way, she had things to do. Plans to plot. "...or is that plots to plan?" She muttered to herself as she stood in the middle of a cleared floor with a padded club in each hand, though calling them clubs was being generous. Jason stood to the side watching her with the strictest attention as she waited for her targets. He wasn't going to be easy to dupe, again.

A cartoonish vampire popped out of a hole. It died swiftly with barely a squeak. Buffy whirled as another emerged from the graveyard themed stand and was promptly pounded back into its resting place.

Once upon a time Giles had taken her to the mall. It had been a mistake on his part. JC Penny's, and did that stand for Jean-Claude Buffy wondered, was having one of their sales and it took her watcher a full three hours to drag her down to the arcade, newly purchased outfits in tow. When a slayer refuses to hone her reflexes with knife catching, forcing her to multitask in perception altering carnival games was the next best thing.

Buffy had made Jason, who was wearing an absolutely ridiculous choker today, get her three of the gofer-stations. She bounced on her feet in the middle moving like a blur. Faster and faster the machines went as did Buffy. She missed her longer teenage reach because, sheesh, she almost let that one get away!

"No you don't, fang-face." Buffy snarled as she snapped her wrist and sent a gaming club across the room to smash down a rising vampire while she hit the three that had come up from where she stood. She rolled along the walkway to pick up her fallen weapon and proceeded to beat the little bastards into submission. She did her best thinking on her feet with the adrenaline flowing. She felt strong, fearless.

The vampire jerked as she smashed it, and she gave a silent curse as her attention shifted to the next pair to come out. A bit too much power, Slayer. Sneaky bloodsuckers hiding in the underground, coming and going, using tunnels no one else knew about. Buffy grit her teeth as the lights on the machines flashed signaling the final round.

Screw it.

Buffy became a whirlwind. The warm air practically shimmered around her as she danced around the games. Her clubs hit home and when she felt she couldn't make it in time her feet struck out, brand new pink striped Tennies hitting Dracula caricatures at just the right angle to send them back into their holes.

She stilled, one arm still outstretched and left leg extended along the ground beside her, only for applause to break out. Buffy blinked and smiled nervously as she looked around. Other circus goers had formed a circle and where throwing gifts of appreciation at her feet; costume jewelry and bit of popcorn. Buffy blushed as a boy her physical age gave her a gap-toothed grin and a blue balloon that had been twisted into a flower. "That was amazing!"

"Uh. Thanks." She returned the clubs and sketched a bow pretending it was only the end of a cheer leading routine.

"You're just as bad as the other one." Jason whispered to himself as he herded her out of the gaming tent. Jean-Claude probably didn't want them gathering too much attention, at least not until everything had settled down and he had more permanent, legal, arrangements made. "What did I do to deserve this?"

Buffy sniffed and tucked a sweat-slicked bang behind her ear and out of her face pretending she hadn't heard the comment. They stopped at a snack booth and got a large soda. Buffy took a moment to drain half the drink while eying the werewolf. He still dressed like a... well... Joyce Summers would never have approved. Fishnet and skin-tight leather that left nothing to the imagination. Nothing.

And people bring their kids here? No wonder the youth of today were so screwed up.

"So." Buffy attempted to slyly interrogate her babysitter. "Does our host really... die... here?"

Jason looked at her and opened his mouth to respond, probably to say that it was none of her business, but before he could Buffy pushed him aside as her eyes widened in surprise at the tiny missile passing near them as it fled through the crowd. "Xander? Wait up!"

* * *

The sun was already low in the sky, twilight wasn't far away, and so as Anita pulled into parking lot of the Circus of the Damned she found herself, once again, searching for a place to park. Summers were always the worst what with tourists on vacation and kids out of school but despite the oncoming road rage and subsequent fights over limited parking (as the owner's human servant Anita didn't pay the parking fee) Anita was grateful to be back in St. Louis. Normally she hated when the badguys came to town and interfered with her sleep schedule but now...?  She didn't particularly want to sleep at the moment.

Her back was stiff and her shirt, a too-small dark tee that that had been hiding under her driver's seat, irritated the healing cuts on her back every time she had to make a tight turn. In the parking lot, this was often.

At least she didn't have to look at bits of pickled shifters in all stages. Her biology classes and years of crime scene investigation had not prepared her for what had been behind that door.

Anita pulled into a parking spot and idled the engine of her jeep, forehead resting on the steering wheel, and sighed. Now, she was going to meet the kids. Anita and children did not mix. A brief stint of babysitting during high school had taught her that lesson and taught it well.

She wasn't even sure what she was supposed to do, but she though she loved Jean-Claude she didn't trust him anywhere outside of a battlefield and she needed to know those children were alright. That Jean-Claude wasn't controlling them through fear and mind tricks. Anita gathered her wits and stepped out of the jeep. She slammed the door shut, adjusted the strap on her gun holster, and waded into the stream of humanity entering the Circus.

After years of coming to St. Louis' number one tourist trap (at one time, when under a different Master, quite literal) Anita was pretty good at feeling out the mood of the milling masses and the employees. The crowds were, as usual, oblivious to the tension around them. Anita ignored the glares as she cut to the front of the line, every Circus employee knew who she was and didn't try to stop her. One or two camera's flashed as the more knowledgeable civilians realized just who had bypassed them and a gaggle of teenagers tittered.

Her shoes crunched over a small pond of popcorn as she snagged the arm of vendor. "What happened." He was a shapeshifter, which flavor Anita wasn't sure but it wasn't Wolf or Leopard, and had absolutely no trouble identifying the threat in her voice.

"N-nothing." He assured her, and his beast quivered under her glare as the broom he was cleaning up the spilled popcorn with creaked under the pressure of his hands. "The machine just got a little... over excited."

"Right." She pulled him to the side, waving off curious looks, and leaned into him bringing every bit of Alpha she had to bear. "What aren't you telling me?" She sniffed his clothing. "Why do you smell burnt?"

"H-he was just scared." The shifter stared down and to the side. "I don't know what happened. The others are looking for them."

"Looking for who?" Anita's dark eyes narrowed. "It's the kids, isn't it. What. Happened." She hoped, prayed, they were okay. Trust Jean-Claude to scare kids out of their wits into doing something completely stupid.

The man looked like he was going to break down crying any second. Anita felt a flicker of remorse, but only a flicker. She had other things to worry about than submissive popcorn vendors.  A new, familiar, smell cut through the haze of salt, butter, ash, sweat, and old death. A welcome blond head came into view moving with a smoothness rarely seen in normal humans. "Anita, hey."

"Stephen." She wondered idly where his brother was. She hadn't seen Gregory in a while. "I'm here for the kids. Where are they?"

Stephen shifted, uncomfortable under his Lupa's gaze. "That's the thing... well... come on." He had the same tension as the other employees she'd seen. The popcorn peddler let out a sigh and snuck back to his mess as Anita turned to follow the other lycanthrope. Anita watched his back, the tense muscles moving under skin-tight fabric, and stewed. They passed an outside stage, an area where performers usually performed brief skits, samples of larger shows, and frowned.

"Why is there a burn ring there?" Anita asked coldly as she spotted equipment she vaguely recognized from the fire breathing attraction. Her back ached, hot, and she repressed the urge to shake it off. It would only irritate the cuts more.

Stephen shrugged. "One of the kids freaked out during the Cat Show. Hi-jinks ensued."

"So they set things on fire?"

"Not on purpose!" The wolf bit out, rushed, and Anita pressed her lips together.  Did they think she was going to raise charges of malfeasance maleficarum? Fuck. He opened the flap to one of the changing tents and ducked inside without waiting for her. Anita had expressed herself time and again how she could open her own doors.

Jean-Claude was up. His hair was wet. Anita felt her lips quirk into a smile, but it died on her face as she caught sight of a red haired girl wringing the bottom of her shirt in her hands. She didn't look right. She looked, simply,  _off_. Anita swallowed, shook her head, and nearly tripped at the feel of pure power creeping up on her. Her hand drifted to her gun, but it was only a child. A kid with burning amber eyes and a frown etched on his face.

The werewolf that started this whole mess by letting himself get taken, but then if he hadn't been locked up, would they have known about St. Peters? If his friends hadn't done what they did, would anyone have known what had been happening?

"We're sorry!" The little girl was saying to Jean-Claude. "Xander doesn't like clowns! We, we didn't think it would be an issue."

"This is a carnival, Ma Sorcière, clowns would have been inevitable." Jean-Claude said in a quiet, gentle voice filled with disappointment. Anita suppressed a snort at the thought of JC the parent. Still, he hadn't been exaggerating. Anita could feel the magic that leaked from the little girl, the strength of the boy's wolf, and marveled. How had they gotten anywhere without being spotted? Even beginner witches were taught basic shields, meditation, even if just to keep them from growing high on their own new power.

Jean-Claude turned to her, a droplet of water dripped from one ear, and smiled. "Ma petite."

"I count two, Jean-Claude, where are the others?" The little wolf brushed past her, grabbed the hand of the little girl, and pulled her deeper into the tent. Jean-Claude gestured to their passage and followed. Anita huffed.

"God. Damn. Fucking. Clowns." A young, male voice was saying. "Clowns. Vampire clowns. It's all so fucking wrong, it's a conspiracy. Gaaaah." Anita entered the dressing room and it was like a tornado had swept through. Feathers from a boa still floated in the air, a wardrobe had fallen on it's side, and there was a woman with a scowl on her face nursing a bruise on her shoulder. Something had dislocated it. Jason was standing by the door with his arms folded over his chest. Crouched down by the overturned wardrobe was a boy, rocking back and forth, grumbling about clowns.

It would have been comical if his words didn't cause her skin to crawl and her blood to boil.

His brown eyes looked into the brilliant green flecked brown of a little blonde girl. "Clowns, Buffy. Clowns."

The other two children had stepped around the mess, closer to their friend, and Anita felt just a little disgusted at how Jean-Claude could just stand there and watch. They should leave. This was clearly a private moment, and she was not the comforting type.  Unless JC would let her shot the clown, she had nothing to offer.

"Hey, Mister." The red head called, mustering authority. "If any clowns try... anything... we'll get 'um. I'm a bad-ass Wicca!" She nodded decisively. "And Oz can go all Wolfy and eat the evidence."

The other boy hummed in agreement. "Totally. Scoobies stick together."

The brunette laughed a little hysterically. "But... they're clowns. They have legions."

"So?" The blonde girl shook her head and rested one hand on her hip, staring down at the boy who had finally stopped shaking. "Don't worry about it." She smiled softly. "You're my White Knight, we can take 'um."

"Buffy? What are you talking about?" There was an underlining nervousness in the kid's voice, but the fear had evaporated and Anita could feel something shift in Jean-Claude. Her shields were good, the best, but so close to him she was picking up echoes that made her want to drag him from the room.

"I was out of my mind with fever, not deaf." The girl, Buffy, was staring at her feet. "You didn't back down. Angelus could have snapped you like a twig, hell, he could have killed the whole bloody hospital, but you didn't back down. You bluffed him... you protected me when I couldn't protect myself. So," she coughed and turned to stare at Anita. Hazel eyes swirled into a dark brown, an abyss, and for a brief instant Anita saw ice blue overlaying brown. She was cold, dead eyes boring into her, and the Executioner could taste death in her mouth and she knew. This girl would kill. Could kill. Had killed. "We'll help you. If the clowns attempt anything, we'll take them down."

It made something in Anita ache at the innocence lost.

Jason blew out a breath in exasperation as he pushed away from the wall, eyes wide open, and asked. "What the hell? It's just clowns! I'll admit they look pretty damn freaky sometimes but-"

The brunette boy jumped up, a snarl on his lips. His eyes flashed. "Hey! When you get chased by knife wielding clowns through your home and school, then you can criticize my phobia! Clowns are EVIL! Have you seen Poltergeist? It's the clown that tries to kill the kid, you know why? BECAUSE IT IS A TWINKIE HATING CAKE DESTROYING EVIL LOVING CLOWN!!!" The boy paused for breath. "They have their forces all over the world, and mimes! Mimes are the fucking assassins of the clown legions! Silent and deadly! Black and white so they can blend in with the shadows! And don't even get me started on the Harlequin!"

Anita's eyes widened at the pure venom with which the kid could rant about clowns. Though it did make her wonder. Mr. Oliver had chosen to dress as clown when he came to kill the city... No, Anita told herself with a shake, that is just stupid.

* * *

Jean-Claude was toweling off his hair. He had not had the time to dry it properly and the dark locks were developing that wavy curl that Anita seemed to find so appealing. His white shirt was abandoned on the bathroom floor for the servants to take up later and he wore only black leather pants for modesty's sake. He could feel Asher's eyes roving over his form hungrily, a lovers touch, and smell Anita's desire caged though it was.

She had control, when she chose to exercise it.

Her jacket lay over the back of her chair, though she was standing, and her scent drifted over him. Blood and death. Burning cold. An unsettled grave. "You are injured, Ma Petite." He tossed the towel to the side and crossed over to her, all grace and power. His eyes shone as she stiffened at his words, her black shirt stretching over her body. "What has happened?"

"My own stupidity happened." Anita growled in anger, but not, for once, at him. He reached out, taking her hand in his, and she let him. With the skin contact he wormed past her walls, peered into her emotions, and recognized the turmoil. Without full open marks there was not much he could do, but he ran what power he could through the tangle of hate, ever-present rage, fear, and sadness. She blinked at him suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Merely admiring your strength, Ma Petite." He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, caressing her arm with his voice.

"It'll be fine by morning." She whispered, voice heavy, as she reclaimed her arm. "I'm much more resilient, now."

She shook her head, refocusing, trying to ignore the pale expanse of his chest. "Stop trying to distract me. What the hell was with that up there?"

"With what, ma petite?"

"Don't you 'Ma Petite' me!" She bristled. "The kid was terrified, and," She trailed off appearing to argue with herself. He wondered what it was about, if it was important. Anita could be just as stingy with information as anyone. "What have you been doing about it?"

"Doing? I had no knowledge of the child's fear, though it seems well founded, no?" Jean-Claude smiled, fangs flashing, and Anita scowled. Who knew so many, interesting, facts could be gleaned from an accident? It had certainly answered a few questions, raised others, but that was all part of the challenge. It was refreshing to deal with people that didn't watch and measure every little thing said. And quite informative.

"What concerns me is that, if I am correct, the boy may have had dealings with the Harlequin."

"You have got to be joking." Anita drawled. "Clowns don't kill people."

"Normal clowns, perhaps not." Asher continued, and he tilted his head to the side revealing a sliver of scar tissue. He had a point to make. "I spent many years with the Council, centuries. Often, to make an example of a rogue Master, and ensure complete success, they would send an elite assassin. The Harlequin."

Anita's lips parted in shocked surprise. "Bullshit."

"Think of it what you will, Anita, but this is true. The execution of Dracula bore the hallmarks of their presence: madness within the ranks until self-destruction tears the Kiss apart. I was unfortunate enough to see the results of their deployment three times. Once set loose, it is said the only thing capable of recalling them before the job is complete is Marmee Noir herself."

"You're telling me that there is a clown-based vampire hit squad. Do you have any idea how utterly ridiculous that sounds?" Though her tone was incredulous, her voice was laced with belief. Asher did not make up stories. He had no reason to. What he was implying was enough to frighten any Master. Jean-Claude had never met nor wanted to encounter the Harlequin. "And you think these kids met them?"

"Sunnydale is a skeleton that threatened everything the Council has been working toward." Asher shrugged. "It is not hard to believe they would send the Harlequin out to take care of any stragglers. The Harlequin specialize in attacking from a distance, they rarely require contact with their targets... or so the rumors go."

Jean-Claude had move behind Anita. His hands rested on her shoulders, possessively, and he spoke softly. "What concerned me was the mention of Angelus."

Asher gave a nod. Angelus. Liam. He was supposed to be dead, ironically, by the Harlequin. Secrecy was the Council's number one priority and they had not smiled upon the terrorization of a young seer to the point she called on the Church.

"So, then." Jean-Claude whispered as he drew Anita over to the bed. She went, stripping the too tight shirt from her body reveling half healed scars Crisscrossing her back as Asher drifted over, and he kissed her neck. "Is it Liam, or another that has assumed his mantle?"

Anita bit out a curse and twisted to catch his mouth. He could feel her irritation with him rising with her lust. She was upset. She wanted him to make her forget, just for little while, what she had seen today.

He had no problem accommodating her.

* * *

Buffy waited for the door to close and Oz to slide the chair beneath the nob before heading over to her shopping bags that had yet to be unpacked. She tossed a duffle bag onto the bed and continued her searching. Colorful tissue papers, clothing, and various nick-knacks flew into the air. The other Scoobies watched Buffy with curious expressions, Willow absently unzipping the first rumpled duffle-bag only to find another packed within like a Russian nesting doll.

"Bingo!" Buffy called cheerily as she stripped off a green bookstore brand bag from a thick yellow book and held it up for all to see. "Isn't it great!"

"You went to a bookstore. I'm proud of you." Willow said with a bright smile. Buffy blinked, pouted, and sniffed in mock hurt. Xander gave a soft chuckle. He was still recovering from his earlier hysteria, and his eyes kept glancing around the room as if expecting something to jump out at any moment.

Buffy flipped her hair and looked down at the yellowish covered book with the red and black lettering. Plants decorated the border, as well as little suns and various stages of waxing and waning moons. It was her key, her seed of thought, her weapon. "Farmer's Almanac," she stated proudly as Oz nudged his guitar out from under the bed and began to play _Hell's Child_ , one of the Dingo's more popular songs. "Giles used to use them to help plan my patrols. They can tell us when the sun will set... and rise." She smiled. It was all teeth.

The room they had been given didn't have a clock, but Buffy had taken care of that, too. The watch on her wrist had been expensive, but she would never need to worry about the battery and, hello, expensive! The totally not-anything-like-Angel vampire deserved every bill he got.

Buffy took a deep breath, hoping that Oz's music would garble their plans from any prying ears. "Wills, we're going to need you." They would only get one shot at this. As long as the dead Frenchmen were playing host, the scoobies had a certain amount of freedom. Room to maneuver. If they attempted to leave and failed, if the vampires weren't as nice as they were pretending... Buffy wasn't going to risk it.

They were getting out. Failure was not an option.


	12. Like Sean Connery

The waiting is the worst. Xander rolled up a pair of pants and tucked them into the heavy duffel bag containing his and Oz's things. The werewolf was leaning back against the door, eyes closed in the darkness, listening. They could all here the soft shuffling of Willow in the bathroom. Buffy was looking down at the floor with her stuffed pig clutched in her arms as she reviewed their projected escape plan. Or at least as much of a plan as they had. Mostly they could just wait and pray. 

Xander felt like they were in a 'copter, waiting for drop off into a hot zone, only this time the enemy was the kind that would gleefully rip out your heart and eat it instead of just fill you with bullets. He shook his head and zipped up the bag he'd been packing. Maybe it wasn't such a big difference. "Hey," he whispered by the light of snapped glow sticks. "We've faced worse odds before." 

"I know." Buffy's face looked strangely pale in the blue tinted light. She sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, and boy howdy was it plush, as she pointed at the Jhonnie Storm figure representing one of their guards. "It's just that we're going to have to take him out, at least, and we don't know how their security works. I... I'm not used to these odds. Either it's all in my favor, or all against. I don't like this middle-of-the-road stuff..." 

General Gordo wheezed as she squeezed him tighter. It was strangely surreal watching the big bad slayer of evil hold an abused stuffed animal like it was her last link on reality. Maybe it was. The thing was bigger than Mr. Gordo had been, nearly half again as large, but instead of a healthy pink it was a washed out yellow with a large gray repair patch on the chest like some kind of battle medal. Buffy'd grabbed him out of Goodwill box a week after their arrival and hadn't given him up.

Xander sorely missed his comic collection. No doubt his parents would have sold it by now.

The bathroom door creaked open, light spilling out, and Xander winced as his eyes hurried to adjust and he shrugged into the straps of the duffel bag. Willow was decked out in a short black dress, hair pulled back into a pig tail, and holding a bowl of freshly mixed funny smelling ointment. "Um," She gestured. Xander rolled his eyes. Of course they had to paint funny things on them, he reflected, silliness was practically the rule of magic; that or human sacrifice. It could never be nice and clean with a swish and a flick. Unless you were _evil._

He stood still as his witch dabbed gritty, salty, ointment over his eyelids, across his throat, and around his ears. Xander had a flash of inspiration and let out a manly giggle. War paint. The tribal priestess must make the rounds to bless her people before battle and make benediction to the gods for success. He watched as the red head moved over to Buffy, applying the magic gritty grease while the blonde made a quip about mystical facials. 

Oz watched from his spot by the door, nose twitching at the smell of the weird mixture, but he didn't step away. If it didn't work, he would be the one to let them know. Willow placed the bowl with the remaining sludge atop a dresser.

When Willow crossed back to the bathroom she paused in the doorway, Xander and Buffy stopped just short of running into her. The witch's voice was a nervous whisper. "Er. I hate to ask, but I'm going to need your mojo bags. They don't sell graveyard dirt in stores." The look on her face told them just what she thought of that.

Xander shifted his feet and shrugged his shoulders. He slung the big travel pack around, nearly toppled himself from the sudden change in weight, and reached in a side pocket where he stored toothbrushes and the like. Next to him Buffy was rifling through her own pack, though she didn't have any fear of unbalancing, until she finally pulled out what looked like a small, battered pouch made of someone's old work shirt. Xander's wasn't much better, but it didn't have to be, and he handed it over with minimum fuss.

* * *

Buffy really didn't know how much she was asking from Willow, but the Rosenberg would be damned if she didn't at least try to deliver. Glamors were one of the first things a new Wicca mastered, even before levitation, as they were simply an alternation of air currents and bent light. To be especially effective a little eye contact and some frowned upon if not totally sketchy mind manipulation could cement the illusion in place for a given individual. Willow had simple glamors down pat after only a month. The hardest thing had been getting used to tapping the mystical energy of the Hellmouth to jump start her own reserves, and then applying only the force necessary to nudge the magic flows how she wanted _without_ the spell blowing up in her face. 

There was a reason she had been saving the fire element for last. Screw up hiding a pimple, and you are in the same place you started in. With a pimple. Screw up calling the forces of Hell, and you get dragged to Hell.

Willow sighed as she stepped carefully over the Sharpie drawn diagram on the floor. The bathroom smelled funny and she hoped none of them got high off of the chemical ink fumes. Everything she was doing was mostly conjecture: all she had were a few notes she'd taken months ago on the theory and way too many substitutions. Xander and Buffy sat in the little clear spaces within the pentagram, packs resting on laps, and Willow circled in the now cramped space with her recently purchased pretty pink sand.

As she connected the two ends of the circle, well more like an oval, and stepped within the enclosed space magic charged the circle with a sharp sizzle. She could feel the contained energy along her arms, the warmth of it curling in her belly, and a cold breath on her neck. Old death. Old power. When was the last time anyone did a dispersal on this place?

Xander was biting his lip and trying to keep his bag from breaking the circle or landing on any of the drawn runes. Buffy's head had whipped around when the circle closed, her instincts screaming. Willow shook her head and sat down. She had to sweep the skirt of her dress around to keep it from knocking the ritual bowl. 

Bathrooms were definitely not built for three people, their things, and a magic diagram. She lit three candles Buffy had purchased with the original intent of an hour long bubble bath. The smell of Christmas cookies mingled with the fumes of herbs and ink. 

Willow began her breathing exercises while narrowing her focus. Calm. She needed calm. 

"...why is she doing Lamaze?"

Curses. Willow wanted to throw something at Xander. It wasn't her fault her mother had taken her to those classes after finding out she was dating. She just got so used to them when nervous, they did help get oxygen where it needed to be, and she worried. So many things could go wrong. Making someone see something that wasn't there was a hundred times easier than erasing something without actually banishing it. And Oz kept having to remind her about smell and hearing too. So not only did she have to erase their visual presence, but audio and olfactory as well.

Well, never know until you try. Right?

Willow picked up a dagger that had been waiting by the bowl, a ceramic number Buffy had picked up for the neat little butterfly glaze, and cut open the mojo-bags. Contained magic popped out of the flannel material and swirled about the enclosed ritual circle as the contents spilled to the cold tile. Chicken bones could be discarded, as well as the mistletoe and dried morning glory petals. The graveyard dirt however... it was dangerous to reuse materials. The books always stressed fresh spell ingredients, and that made all kinds of sense, but Willow doubted she could walk up to the werewolf guarding the door and just ask to visit the nearest cemetery by moonlight.

The red head scraped as much dirt as she could from the remains of both dream charms and dumped it in the bowl. Her friends would just have to deal with the nightmares for a bit, until she could make new ones. Chopped angelica root went in next as well as olive oil and dried blueberries. It was only luck that she'd decided to use Jason's credit card and buy the packet of comfrey leaves. Willow stirred the bowl counter-clockwise while turning it right with her spare hand. She felt a little like she was trying to pat her head and rub her tummy at once.

Combined with the overwhelming smell of Sharpie, sugar cookies from the scented candle, and thick taste of magic the whole effect was rather trippy. She made a small cut on her finger and squeezed a few droplets into the bowl, then passed the dagger to Buffy who made a similar incision before handing the dagger to Xander. 

"Hermes," Willow intoned with as much authority as she could. She remembered what happened to Mrs. Madison and Amy. One did not invoke gods on a whim. "Guardian of Wayfarers. We bequeath this unto you, in tribute and honor." She paused and swallowed as Xander's blood joined her's and Buffy's in the bowl. It was boiling. "May our steps be swift, silent, and unseen."

The magic was building dangerously. She had to move fast. Willow was shaking, though the witch would be proud to report that her voice did not waver, "May our path be clear and our hearts true." As one, the three Scoobies stood and Willow bashed the bowl onto the bathroom tiles where it shattered, the gathered magic flowing over and clinging to the skin like a layer of warm down as the candles blew out.

Willow looked up into glittering hazel eyes, almost blue, and Buffy asked with a curious tilt to her voice, "Did it work?"

* * *

Oz had felt the power Willow generated. It was worrisome, he thought the circle was supposed to contain it, but there was nothing he could do. He had to wait. Oz glanced down at the watch Buffy had lent him. The vampires had gone to bed ten minutes ago, they should be happily dead in their coffins, (and wasn't that just hilarious, this dimension's vampires were walking cliché's), which meant their chances of making it out increased significantly. 

So far as any of the scoobies knew the lycanthropes didn't have mind control powers, and they were so... Oz wasn't quite sure what the term for it was. His parents certainly never expressed so much concern over what he was doing. As long as he wasn't running through the streets with a butcher knife after babies they considered his activities wholesome.

Someone was knocking at the door. The wood magnified the sound rather than absorbed it, and the heavy hits echoed around the room and the bathroom door creaked open. Oz snorted to clear the smell and checked the bed to be sure the activated glow-sticks were still stashed beneath the comforter with the dummies. 

"Kids?" Called a voice with a slight accent, barely noticeable, but there was a preciseness that those extremely familiar with slang picked up on. It was the kind of speech that teachers tried to enforce and failed, miserably, until the people at Webster's caved and added new entries into the dictionary.

"Hmm?" Oz bounced off the bed and moved to the door, opening it. He stopped halfway, foot blocking the door from swinging open completely, and stared at the opposition. He smelled like a wolf, Oz's personal puppy rolled over in agitation, and he was big. Bigger than Oz had been. Bigger than a lot of the people the Osbourne had met over the years. 

If he had been anyone else, he might have felt inadequate.

Oz did have to admit the guy looked good with J-Pop-Esq hair and leather pants. The gloves were a nice touch too. The Dingo's never really got a handle on the whole Rock Band 'look'. "Morning."

The other wolf gave a small smile without showing teeth. "Is everything okay in there?" He stuck his head through the entryway trying to peer past the door and into the darkness. Black eyes narrowed as the lycanthrope gave a confused sniff. "We felt, uh, a power surge. Is your friend alright?"

Oz tilted his head and ran a hand over his peach-fuzz hair. "She's fine, now." It wasn't strictly a lie. It was the truth. Honestly. The scooby could feel the subtle shift in energy and air currents as the werewolf at the door relaxed, pulled his head back, and stuffed his hands into the pocket of his leather pants. 

Again, Oz had to admit the guy made those pants look good, and not in the total slut way either. Still, he was a man of simple tastes and would prefer his jeans and button-ups any day. Maybe that was why the Dingo's never managed to gather a groupie following? Nah. 

Oz glanced over his shoulder. Sue Storm was levitating in circles and having a pitched battle with an equally flight-capable Reed Richards. Lover's quarrel? "Can we go to the kitchen?"

The other grinned, dark eyes sparkling through the messy fringe of hair covering his face, and rocked back on his heels while nodding knowingly. "Shifter metabolism. Takes some getting used to." He stepped back and waited for Oz, who had turned around to grab the bowl Willow left out earlier. "What's that?"

"Stuff." 

Seeing that no further answer was forthcoming the older werewolf shrugged and began walking down the hall after signaling to some unseen backup that all was well. The little escapee was already developing quite the reputation for stoicism. 

Oz sighed and held the bowl close to his chest as he followed, suppressing a satisfied smile as the security guard did not notice how the wooden door to the scoobie's room lingered open a few seconds more than should have been expected. Sloppy, but then is was a fairly heavy door. Quality. Not those flimsy things in movies you see heroes/villains axe through in three hits. 

Operation: Three Blind Mice, was a go.

Oz shook his head. As much as he adored her, Willow was not allowed to name their plans anymore.

* * *

Her crossbow was a welcome, solid weight in her hands. Buffy crept along the hallway, slipping from shadow to shadow, though it probably wasn't necessary. Willow's spell was holding up. No one could see them, heck, if it wasn't for the mud-o-magic they wouldn't even be able to see each other. But she felt better. It just gave her the wiggins to be walking along and have someone stare right through her. 

And, wow, what people wore, or didn't wear, when they thought no one was looking. It was a good thing Buffy wasn't actually the age she appeared or she might have been scarred for life.

Buffy pursed her lips and quickly ducked to the side as someone came around the corner nearly running her over. She wondered if this was what Marcy, poor crazy little Marcy, had dealt with twenty-four-seven. Following that train of thought an unhappy one blossomed. What did the government want with the invisible girl? They had said they were going to help her, but they said the same thing about Oz and the lycanthropes.

"Different worlds, different governments. There's no reason to think they're hurting her." Buffy muttered to herself as Oz and their personal guard ducked into the hallway ahead. Buffy could smell the lingering paprika of dinner. She shifted her crossbow to one hand and gave a little hop to settle the weight of the bag on her back. Just because she could lift and haul the thing didn't mean it was comfortable. 

Xander was grumbling as he caught up, hands on the shoulder straps of his duffel, and limping. "I nearly twisted my ankle getting out of the way of that... woman. If I didn't know better I could swear she did it on purpose." Creepy lady with dark hair and red dress. Reminded her eerily of Mrs. French, so, going on instinct Buffy was willing to bet she was not-of-the-good category.

"Is it going to be okay?" Willow asked softly. She had told them the spell would last longer the less effort it had to exert, or rather Willow had to exert. Translation: try to be quiet.

The brunette was leaning against the wall shaking out his leg. "I think so. Just give it a minute." They gathered in the kitchen as Oz shrugged at the other were's question. Buffy narrowed her eyes and crept closer. Their timing had to be perfect. Xander dropped his bag in a corner and joined her as Willow hung about the entryway keeping lookout. 

Buffy carefully set down her own bag and circled the two lycanthropes. She felt rather like an animal herself, stalking her prey, a true hunter. The little thrill of adrenaline kicked up and the former cheerleader couldn't help the smirk that found its way to her lips as she eyed the Asian cutie. Shame she had to hurt him. If only she were two feet taller... and possessed a bust worth mentioning. 

"Clear!" Willow's voice piped out as she gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. 

Buffy moved. She held her bow in one hand, tilted up and out of the way, while she cocked back the arm of the other and stepped into range. Lycanthropes were tough. She'd fought Oz before, shifted and not, and he had great stamina. Once the blood was pumping it was almost impossible to put him down.

So she just had to be faster, and hit him where it hurt before he and his beast could regroup. Cutie wouldn't even see it coming.

Buffy twisted, putting her whole body into the strike, and punched the adult lycanthrope in the solar plexus. The hit came as a surprise and he dropped to his knees, eyes wide and mouth agape as he gasped in pain, looking around in panic. Shit. If they were actively trying to spot-the-difference the spell would have to work that much harder... Buffy gripped her crossbow with both hands and whirled around, bringing it crashing on the lycanthropes head before he could catch his breath and call out. 

He hit the floor, and didn't move.

"Is he dead?" Willow asked fearfully. Buffy didn't think so.

"No." Xander called softly as he crouched down, fingers touching a wrist. "I kinda want his gloves..."

"We aren't thieves!" Willow snapped. "Well... uh... only under special circumstances. At this point taking his gloves would just be mean." 

While the two best friends argued the moral consequences of knocking someone out and stealing their clothes, it wasn't like they would fit Xander's hands anyway, Oz was retrieving the bowl of mud and spreading it on his eyes and ears. He blinked and looked at them, grinning. "Guess it works." He stared at the unconscious werewolf. "He won't be out long... and I just think I spotted the flaw in our cunning plan."

"Besides the obvious?" Buffy quipped, taking the bowl and rinsing it out in the kitchen sink. She certainly couldn't remember every twisty passage and the front door was a no-go, but hopefully with a little exploring under the glamor they could find the backdoor exit. All hideouts had them, right? Library did. Warehouse did. Hell, the Master's caves had about a million of them.

"...where do we stash the body?" He nudged Cutie with his toe.

"Oh." Where could they stash the body? It was early in the morning, yes, but this place still had an inordinate amount of morning people wandering around doing who knows what. Why, any one of them could walk in for some coffee and stumble upon the unconscious man. "I need coffee. Don't talk to me." She lifted a chair and waddled with it over to the counter trying not to scrape the stone floor and alert anyone with sensitive hearing.

"Uh, guys. This freezer, it's huge." Xander said from where he was standing with the cool air from the open room slowly filling the room.

Buffy perked up. Problem solved.

* * *

Lillian had a late shift the night before, and there were certainly more perks to being a senior staff member than tenure and bossing around all the little interns. And it might have had a tiny bit to do with the fact her boss owed her for an emergency house call from a few years back, but either way she got to take her sweet time coming in for a hectic day of clinic duty. 

The wererat stood at her office door juggling a large coffee, patient files, and her keys. When the door finally opened she heard the unmistakable slide of files along the carpet. Unprofessional, they should have been in her box, but then Lillian hadn't wanted to take the off chance that some curious nurse would peek at the results. Her enhanced ears had picked up a betting pool on just what the Rat Queen, and she found her nickname among her fellow physicians hilarious, was up to with the poor overworked interns. She was grateful she'd done the wolf's blood work herself, but she was damn curious as to the boy's.

Her coffee could wait, and she placed the files for today's appointments on the desk, then bent down to gather the papers binder clipped together that her minions had left her. First off, Melissa's. The doctor flipped the folder open while walking back to her desk, eyes scanning the page. She turned to sit against her desk, flipped to the next report with the DNA analysis, and continued reading.

Lillian snapped the folder closed and checked with Tim and Francisco's results. They were mostly in agreement, and Tim had written a ridiculous theory about aliens at the end of his report along with an illustration of a flying saucer and a note about how much he appreciated the 'busy' work. Truly, he did, it was nice to not worry about a patient dying every once in a while.

Lillian set the folders to the side and rubbed her temples. It was just going to be that kind of day, wasn't it? First a werewolf with a lycanthropy strain that, quite frankly, scared the piss out of her when she hadn't even seen how it manifested on the full moon. The licensed physician in her wanted to call in the CDC, but you just didn't _do _that. Lycanthrope business. One just didn't throw a new species to the, figurative, wolves. Real ones, perhaps, but she'd be damned before she let some government egg head with more brains than sense get his/her hands on those kids.__

Then there was the other brat. Cute, that one. Dead, he should be. His DNA was all over the place and none of it seemed compatible. Hell, even children born with just one animal sequence tended to die within the first year if they managed to make it past birth. How could this kid be running around cracking jokes when he should be by all rights a non-functioning puddle of genetic waste on the floor?

Lillian took a calming sip of her coffee, savored the aroma of the vanilla flavoring, and wondered if Jamison in the pharmacy would mind her borrowing the extra strength relaxers for a bit. Tylenol just didn't cut it with her metabolism. The doctor picked up her office phone, dialed nine to get out, and punched in the number every member of the Rodere had to memorize. By the time this whole mess was over Lillian was willing to bet every last strand of her hair would be gray. 

"It's Lillian. I need to speak with the Rom." She waited as the secretary transferred her over, and tried to think of a way to explain her findings that sounded half-way reasonable.

* * *

Graham first noticed the cold. Then he noticed his eyes were closed. So he opened them and groaned at the bump on his head that was the size of a football, at least that was how big it felt. He shivered at the cold, the almost unnoticeable puddle of cool water beneath him did nothing for his comfort level, and pulled himself up by a hanging slab of cow. 

"Shit." He had been knocked out by some invisible force. THAT had certainly never been in the body-guard handbook, but he didn't think his boss would care. Fuck it, he KNEW neither Jean-Claude or Claudia would accept that excuse. Though he thought he caught the faint scent of mangos right before the lights went out. Graham rubbed his eyes and wandered over to the door to get out while patting himself down. 

His knives were gone. Peachy. His lock-picking equipment was MIA too, which meant he was stuck in the big-ass freezer freezing his ass off. Fabulous. Lycanthropes hated the cold. Give him a desert any day, but trips up north were few and far between. "Knocked out by the invisible woman. That will go over sooo well." 

His heart jumped into his throat as his brain finally shrugged off the cold haze and caught up. Gods above, he hoped Oz was okay. But there were others all over, surely he could have screamed for help, but what do you say to something that can't be seen or heard? He hadn't even caught a scent until after the first strike!

And what kind of monster smells like Mango Madness Body-splash? 

Graham tugged at the handle on the door. It moved, slightly, but refused to open. He groaned, but this time it wasn't due to pain. Clay was never going to let him live this down.

* * *

"Yup." Xander stated unnecessarily as he pressed them against a wall trying to avoid the lycanthrope rushing past while speaking into a radio. Willow felt her face flush and her head swim. "I think it's safe to say we've lost the element of surprise."

Buffy shrugged with a grin and cracked her neck. "I never much liked surprises anyway." 

The slayer had not been happy when Willow pointed out that while everything that had been in the circle with them was covered by the spell, a floating coffee mug would have been just a tiny bit conspicuous, and so she had to leave the half-drunk mug on the counter before any patrols showed up. The slayer was a night person, a day person, but not a mid-morning person unless she had a full belly and caffeine. Right now, she was willing to take her bad mood out on just about anything. 

Willow tapped the door to let Oz know the coast was clear. Their progress had been slow, but Oz had been able to identify which hallways were used the most and therefore they avoided them. Some of the rooms though they'd ducked into though? Just because she knew what some of those things were for didn't mean she wanted to use them. Ever. Willow shuddered and took a step forward.

"Wills!" Brown eyes were staring at her, wide and worried. When had she gotten on the floor? "Willow!"

"M'kay." The witch shook her head, pointedly ignoring her boyfriend. He was looking at her in that way that said: I know you're lying. Stop it. 

They stumbled over to a convenient alcove, because those things really were all over the place, and hunkered down. Oz had started carrying the boy's pack, Buffy still had theirs, and he was squeezing the strap with a white knuckled grip as his eyes burned reflecting thoughts more animal than man. 

"You aren't 'okay'." Buffy had crouched down now and the back of her hand was cool on the other girl's forehead. "You're burning up! Why didn't you tell us? We, we could have waited another day."

"No, we couldn't have." Willow bit out and took a deep breath. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up and that cold, cold feeling of graves at midnight was back. "Besides, I'm not sick." She ignored the disbelieving frown. "It's magical exhaustion. I've read about it. This spell, it just, it uses a continual feed of magic. And keeping it up is..."

No! Willow felt her eyes water and hated herself. She was stronger than this! Stupid younger body with it's stupid over emotional responses. Buffy looked crushed, guilty, like she had after the anointed one nearly sacrificed them. Willow didn't want to see any of her friends like that.

And that icy creepiness was, well, creeping up on her. 

Frustrated, Willow marshaled her magic and risked taking a tiny spike of energy from the concealment spell to go after the uncomfortable thing that had been plaguing her off-and-on ever since they got to the Circus. The witch had been expecting a dispersal, a simple dispelling of accumulated aura before it turned into a poltergeist or worse, but she didn't get it.

"Willow?! What is it?"

She knew her eyes had widened. Her mouth worked soundlessly. Feedback. That cold presence was sending something back into her along her magic thread and it soothed the fever of her over taxed magic and she felt something inside her click. Something she hadn't even realized was there, was broken, snapped into place and with a gasp Willow looked around with new eyes.

There was a man standing just beyond Oz. A dead man. A bald dead man covered in bloodstains. Red ran in rivets from his neck as another stream had blossomed on his chest and across his stomach. He just stood there, looking at her, and if it weren't for the phantom blood forever marring his suit she would of thought him a businessman out to lunch. "Hello, little witch." His voice was soft, warm, and British.

Willow swallowed. He reminded her of Giles. She missed Giles. She sniffed and wiped away the tears threatening to spill. No need to be impolite and piss off the nice ghost... "H-hi."

He smiled at her. Willow tore her eyes away from the bloody phantom long enough to check on her friends. Didn't they see him? He was standing right there! She felt her vision swim and clutched Xander closer as Oz put a hand on her shoulder and stared in the direction of the ghost. But not at it. He wasn't seeing it. Why wasn't he seeing it?! Why did the ghost come to her? Why did she feel... safe with it? 

"What do you want?" The last time they'd had to face a haunting it nearly got them all killed and Buffy had been possessed. The spirits had tried to pull Willow down through the floor to, well, somewhere. Luckily they did not succeed. 

But why did the dead things always come after her! No one else had gotten the floor-suck-age treatment. Maybe it's because you died, a little voice that sounded like a snarky Cordelia whispered in her mind, you were a ghost and a vampire and freaks attract freaks. 

"My dear," he smiled. It wasn't very nice, but more in the not-used-to-smiling way rather than the I'm-a-mean-bastard way. "You need a way out, yes? I know these passages very, very well."

"You want to help us?" Her green eyes kept being drawn to the wound at his neck, knife if she wasn't mistaken. "Why?"

"Wills, who are you talking to?" Buffy asked, voice like steel.

The ghost's eyes drifted to her blonde friend, thoughtful, before coming back to settle on Willow. His gaze drifted off into the mid-distance as if remembering something from long ago. "This place was my Mistress'. She was killed, murdered, by the current Master. I... watch. I do not have any particular fondness for the usurper."

"Jean-Claude?"

He nodded in polite confirmation. Well, the scoobies didn't have any particular fondness for the Frenchie either. Willow debated with herself. The guy was already dead, non-corporeal dead, what did he have to gain from lying to them? She exhaled and blinked her eyes. The phantom was not going away, it seemed.

"Willow." Desperation and worry. 

She patted Xander's hand and struggled into an upright position. Her spell wouldn't last much longer. She could feel it slipping. "There's a ghost, he's willing to help us out."

"So why can't we see him?" Buffy eyed the spot the dead man was standing in with a frown. 

Xander helped her to her feet as they hurried deeper into the complex with Willow translating the directions from Burchard. Oz was by her side, one arm wrapped around her waist, and Willow flushed at the heat that filled him. Maybe she could borrow some? Spells always worked better with more people joining their power, but she had never read anything that used a werewolf curse as a power source. Aside from another curse, that is.

"You picked a hell of a time to make an imaginary friend." Xander grumbled and Oz smirked. 

But not once did they second guess her.

* * *

They stopped at the exit of the secret passage, the dark and dank closing in on them, and if any of the scoobies were claustrophobic it might have been a problem. Buffy kept her eyes closed against the dark and listened. Willow's spell had, finally, given out. The fact was pretty much obvious when their friend stopped in the middle of a hall, tipped sideways, and the only thing preventing her from banging her head against an oddly placed end table had been Oz diving to catch her.

Then there had been the sudden chill that settled on their skin like someone rudely ripped away a soft and warm blanket. That might have been a clue.

Either way they lost the ability to waltz right past the guards, not that their wolf ever had that, and it took everything Buffy had not to jump out of their fox hole and start punching their way to freedom. Too many monsters, not enough people. See, she did learn something about strategy. The blonde held her breath at the sound of feet slowing, a whisper of murmurs just on the edge of her hearing, and her heart beat a quick rhythm in her chest. She kept her fingers crossed. "They're gone."

Xander had to put his shoulder into it, but he managed to move the wall enough for them to peek out. "How far?"

"Third door on the left. Can't miss it." Willow mumbled, half supported by her boyfriend. Yeah, she was knackered, but a half hour rest and some sugar she'd be right as rain. Too bad they didn't have time for that. Certainly not if they wanted to make it out before someone caught on to what they were doing. They filed out of the hole in the wall into an area lit by torches that smelled of old death and violence, thick and heavy. 

Buffy hiked her bag higher on her shoulders and took point. She snuck along, new black boots silent as she stepped lightly, and counted the old wooden doors. They were rough-hewn, not like the ones in the habitable areas of the caves, and bore heavy iron locks. Classic dungeon chic. The cynic in her wondered if they weren't being led into a trap by some crazy inviso-demon that could only be seen by witches, because if there were demons that only showed themselves to sick people who knew what could-and-couldn't exist?

She reached the appropriate door and lifted the latch, wincing at the scraping sound and praying no shapeshifters were close enough to hear it and come investigating. 

Willow and Oz ducked in, the later retrieving a nearly drained glowstick from his pants pocket and holding it aloft, followed by Xander. Buffy went in last, hold the door and closing it carefully. She was so busy backing up silently she nearly missed the fact her foot came down on air and had to do some emergency gymnastics, not the easiest thing to do while carrying a full duffel bag and heavy weaponry, to avoid crashing hard on the dungeon floor. "Don't. Say. Anything."

Xander just smiled at her before turning to Willow who had claimed a seat on the lowest step of the stone staircase. "Where to next, Willow-witch? And will there be timed flamethrowers involved? Or giant fans?"

There was a hard-boiled egg in her pocket that was calling to her. Buffy tapped it against the floor, rolled it along to further weaken the shell, before picking off the hard parts to reveal her prize. A quick check in the Willow section of their travel bag earned her some sea salt, good for everything from spells to tasty condiment-ness. "You sure this is the place?" Buffy asked, voice low in case it carried in the cave like chamber. She was pointedly ignoring the chains anchored into the wall and the bloodstains. "I mean, nothing against your friend. But he's dead, maybe he's forgotten a few things without a brain to keep it in?"

Willow seemed to seriously consider this for a moment before shaking her head. "I don't think so. This is part of the reason he died. Not something you would forget." She nibbled her lip and stood, shuffling over to the wall. "But it should be here. There should be crack big enough for us to fit through."

Buffy detected movement to her left. She looked and found herself locked in a staring contest with the cutest rat she'd ever seen. Beady black eyes and a smooth brown body looked her up and down as it chewed on the bits of eggshell the blonde had discarded. It reminded her of Amy. Buffy frowned in thought as she dug a day-old biscuit from one of her bags and offered it a piece at a time to the small creature. What had happened to the other witch? Did the backfired spell finally wear off? Or was she still a rat? Was Willow's mom taking care of her? Had she been sold to a pet store? Released into the wild?

The brown rat climbed up to sit on her knee as an uneasy feeling in Buffy's stomach grew. It was weird. She hadn't given much thought to the Amy situation in weeks. After the failed reversal attempt she just handed it over to Willow to research and handle. So why was she thinking about it now?

Oz was laying across the stone steps, head cocked to the side, as he spun a glowstick around his fingers like a drumstick. "If I was an evil overlord," Buffy giggled at the thought of Oz being a lord, let alone evil. "I would want to plug up all the weakness' in the castle's defense after I exploited them and took over. Just saying."

The wolf had a point. Buffy stood and brushed crumbs from her sneaky-outfit, black jeans, shirt, and boots, after giving the rat a quick pat on the head and setting it to the side. She headed over to the wall, snapped the last of her blue tinted glowsticks, and really _looked_. The walls certainly appeared solid. She kinda didn't want to get too close to them, new clothes and all, but what choice did she have? Dirt, blood, and moss covered most of the walls... most of the... "Oh, I am so stupid!"

Buffy marched over to a bit of stone that looked far too clean in comparison of the rest of the cell. Sure it matched the brick around it, and when she touched it she felt the smooth cold of stone, but it lacked that grubby feeling of age and death. She kicked it. Again and again, and she didn't care that it was starting to make a little noise, because Xander had run back up the stairs and was doing something to the lock and Oz was helping and the mortar was crumbling and she could shift the rocks. Her knuckles were bleeding from the abuse she put them through and there was a chill at her back but it didn't matter.

They broke through. Fresh, cool air reached her nose and she breathed it in with a relaxed smile. Not out of the woods yet, but the clearing was in sight.


	13. Legacy

Running through the cave had been one of the weirder experiences she'd had since coming to this dimension. It had been dark, no surprise there, but it lacked the steady drip-drip and musty moldy air of the Sunnydale systems. It was cramped and for the first time since being dumped in the United States of Abnormal Buffy was thankful their bodies had gotten the shrink treatment. She had just slipped over rocks and between crevasses as if she'd been born to it with Willow, Oz, and Xander following with urgency born speed.  
  
None of them wanted to be in the room when their gracious _hosts_ found out they flew the coop. Sure, she could probably take them, but it would be messy and painful and she couldn't be everywhere at once and if something went wrong and someone lost control and... Buffy slammed a sledgehammer down on that train of thought and crushed it into a fine powder.  
  
Still, it was weird. Oz complained that the whole place smelled like rats. It was an old, lingering scent that hadn't been washed away over the years, and it worried Buffy at first, but why? She had moved around those s-lag and s-lam thingies so easily, almost as if she was following echos of something only she could hear. While they made their escape the slayer chalked that static feeling snapping along her skin up to adrenaline, but in hindsight that wasn't quite right. It was warm and homey in the dark and cold. Like lazy weekend afternoons on the couch, surrounded by old quilts listening to others bustle around in the kitchen.

Buffy didn't trust it. Ever since being Called her watchers had told, trained, her to trust her instincts. The Slayer package came with some damn handy skills, expert reflexes while driving not being one of them, but you had to train to use them properly. Had to focus. Had to wake up the little killer within and not lose yourself to it. But where the Slayer was death incarnate, cold and unforgiving while at the same time burning with a passionate hellfire, other instincts and feelings had slowly begun to make themselves known.  
  
This dimension and its tilt-a-whirl craziness made her head spin. Whatever happened to see a vampire, stake a vampire? Oh, what she would give for the simple life. The blonde vampire slayer severally hoped Lady Useless didn't wake up and make an appearance. Considering scooby luck, she probably would, and at the most inopportune moment, too.  
  
Buffy gave a depressed sigh as the truck they were riding in the back of hit a pothole. Her head smacked against a crate and she scowled, rubbing the spot and pushing their bags further against the side of the truck bed with her feet. Oz had found the one section of clear sunshine atop some dusty bags of cement mix and had curled up in it like a big cat. He absently sucked on a bloody knuckle, eyes closed, while a low and contented rumble issued from his chest. His reddish hair had caught the light in such a way that it looked like his head was covered in white-blonde fuzz.  
  
"Great plan, Xan. Great plan." Buffy grumbled. She couldn't even sit up and work the kinks out of her back in case someone saw them or the farmers-tan driver of their ride noticed he had some hitchhikers. "Let's all jump in the truck filled with construction equipment while it's stopped for gas."  
  
Xander was lying only a few inches away, back pressed into the flatbed, eyes watching the slightly swinging rack of pick-axes, metal pikes, and various types of destructo-hammers, sledge and jack. Wasn't that some kind of safety hazard? Probably not if you don't expect people to actually ride in the back. Oh. Right. "Would you rather them find us in the woods again? I'm no expert, but I'm sure we didn't make an easy trail to follow. Gotta give us some credit."  
  
"Guys?" Willow spoke up from where she had squeezed herself between a box that rattled and a bundle of heavy steel pipe. There was a half-eaten apple in her hands that she turned, slowly, as she stared at the surface. "Don't, don't fight. We're all a little cranky and nervous."  
  
Yes. Yes they were. Post action jitters were normally solved with some hot cocoa, pizza, and a warm shower. Buffy squirmed, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position, before giving up and snapping open the latch on her bag to fish for her pig. He had a soft squish body and therefor automatically volunteered for pillow duty. If her head hit that crate one more time something was going to break, and it was not going to be her skull.  
  
Buffy let the summer warmth soothe her bad mood. Hidden in the shade as she was, the afternoon heat wasn't too terribly horrible and for the moment enough humidity had been burned out of the air to make it semi-comfortable. At least her hair wasn't in danger of frizzing up. So what if the handle to something was digging into her side and that gnat wouldn't leave her alone? Overall it could be worse. Had been worse. She would take the summer heat and open sky over creepy underground caverns any day.  
  
"Sorry." Buffy apologized as they trundled along, the wheels of the truck making a steady grinding noise along the black-top as the various tools rattled in their spots like some musical accompaniment.  
  
"We should think about getting out." Oz's soft voice was nearly swallowed by the air rushing past the moving vehicle. He gripped one of the tie-downs to steady himself and lifted his head into the wind for a split second before ducking back down. "We're leaving the boonies. Fresh cut grass. Suburbs?"  
  
"Works for me."  
  
"But we're still in the city." Willow sighed and leaned into the crate beside her. "I wish we had a car."  
  
"We'd just get pulled over."  
  
The sounds of other vehicles was growing steadily louder. Buffy nibbled her lip. Last time they jumped from a moving car there had been a nice body of water to catch them. "Oz. Keep watch. We jump at the next turn. He'll have to slow down, and if our luck holds he won't see us before we can take cover." Time to see if grass really was a good cushion.  


 

* * *

  
Everything was falling apart at the seams. At least that was it felt like. Screw the nest of blankets, Claudia mentally grouched as she stood in the room formerly occupied by a quatrain of miscreant pipsqueaks, I'm going to find a nice padded room and throw them in it. With double lock doors and a heavy guard armed with... super-soakers. Yes. Super-soakers filled with sticky syrup. Not only will it slow them down but hopefully entice them to waste time eating it and cleaning it from their clothing. Nothing like a trail of maple syrup to help track a group of Houdinis-in-Training.  
  
Animal black eyes snapped another mental picture of the floor, the part that hadn't been trodden over by near panicking lycanthropes. Jean-Claude had expensive tastes, but then he was French and a centuries old vampire so it was expected, and those kids had used it to their advantage. Unless she was greatly mistaken, and Claudia would bet her job she wasn't, that was a rough map of the floorplan to the level they were currently on. The fibers of the thick, ankle-deep rug had been used like a blackboard to outline what the area they had intended to go through looked like. Including the numerous hidey-holes her people were stationed at when not patrolling the corridors.  
  
Numerous Happy Meal toys had been placed at different points on the makeshift map most likely symbolizing the stations of her people.  
  
If Claudia wasn't so damn upset she would have been impressed.  
  
"Found him." Jeanette said as opened the door to reveal the wolf that had missed his check-in and let the kids pull their vanishing act. Ice crystals dusted his thick black hair hinting at just where he had been. Claudia was tempted to march him back down to the kitchen and string him up on one of the meat hooks for oh, say, thirty minutes or until whitish-blue.  
  
But she was a professional. She dismissed her fellow rat and rounded on the wolf. "Catch." She tossed a plastic spray-bottle at him and his hands fumbled from his pockets to grab it. Dark eyes looked at the orange, sparkly liquid in question.  
  
"Miss C?"  
  
"Is that what you smelled?" She asked while ignoring the crackle from the radio at her hip. No matter what they did, signals had a hard time working through the stone. It always sounded half-garbled unless you were on the same floor as the person you were trying to contact.  
  
Graham unscrewed the top and took a sniff. "Yeah. Mangoes and Kiwi. With just a hint of lime."  
  
"Thought so." She ran a hand through her long brown hair, scratching at her scalp. Once the call came in she booked it over and hadn't the time to put it up. "Now I just have to figure out how to tell JC that the blonde one can apparently turn herself invisible."  
  
"If it's any consolation-" He started, stopped, shut his mouth and averted his eyes. Claudia was tall for a woman, broad and well-muscled, and when she brought her beast to bear she all but loomed.  
  
"It's not." The wererat moved back over to the bathroom where the remains of a ritual of some kind stood in stark contrast to their setting. Someone had made a token effort of erasing the evidence judging by smeared symbols and the pile of colored sand and pottery shards in the corner. Her radio crackled back to life, this time coming in clear. "Are you certain?"  
  
"It matches the bottle. And we got the three others... but how did they know the tunnels even exist?"  
  
How indeed? It was disturbing. Highly. Claudia did not like the idea that they had a security leak, and the interior passages were only known to those with top clearance, and the implication that someone would use children in vampire politics, send them in as reconnaissance, set her teeth on edge. Her beast trembled and chittered in her mind.  Her nails grew sharper, darker, and longer.  
  
Claudia counted to ten before holding down the transmission button of her radio. "I'll be there in five minutes. Spread out, call who we can to keep an eye out for the kids."  
  
"Yes, Ma'am."  
  
She walked across the room, blue painted walls doing nothing to calm her, and stared down at the wolf. She knew just the punishment... "Graham. Call your Lupa. Tell her what has happened." His eyes widened at the order. "Then ask if we can borrow some of her leopards."  


 

* * *

  
Xander kept walking while trying to avoid the mysterious pool of still damp shiny color and chunky bits that experience made not so mysterious. It was throw-up. The kind that came after a night of drinking that you didn't remember in the morning: you just woke up in some strangers place missing half your clothing and wondering why the world wouldn't stop spinning. Xander had never personally experienced this, but he clearly remembered the phone ringing him into wakefulness and his mother yelling into the receiver before grabbing her purse and slamming the door.  
  
Mother Harris had been good enough to come home before last call and check on her child, until he started middle-school at any rate. He had to give her that. Coming home at a godly hour and making sure the kitchen cabinet was stocked with Easy Mac and various quick-fix snacks showed she gave some thought to her progeny.  
  
Xander's musing down memory lane were not helpful to the situation. Mainly, he was supposed to be finding them an accomplice for stage two of get-the-fuck-out. It was a good thing it wasn't too late, he was having a hard enough time ignoring the _girls, girls, girls_ signs without them being lit up in glowing neon. Because, seriously, his brain was still jumping back and forth between the toast-makes-me-think-about-sex track and mmmm-toast while his body was, well, not.  
  
It certainly made for a strange and uncomfortable few minutes when they realized just where the best place to hide would be. After changing clothes, of course.  
  
Xander had the hood of his sweater up despite the heat. That's right, he thought, just another youthful deviant wandering the red-light district before the boobies come out. "I don't get it." Xander whispered to Oz who was glancing around the street as if the storefronts were mildly amusing museum pieces. Who knows, maybe in a few hundred years they would be? "I was sure if we followed the smell of piss, we would find a homeless guy."  
  
Oz shrugged and kicked a broken beer bottle, careful to avoid the jagged edges.  
  
"What about bridges? I heard they like to sleep under bridges and build nests." Xander nodded to himself as he took Oz's silence for agreement. His mouth continued running as his eyes caught sight of a busty woman in short-shorts walking out of a run-down apartment complex and shaking out her hair. She wasn't wearing a bra. "Of course, we didn't really have any homeless in Sunny D. They all probably got eaten. Which, I suppose, with vampires being all everywhere here might cause a dip in the vagrant population. Hmmm."  
  
The woman had stopped beside a video store window and was checking her makeup. Her mouth made a little 'o' as she pulled a tube of bright red lipstick from between her breasts and applied it. They were big breasts, barely hidden by plunging neckline of her shimmery loose top.  
  
She looked like what his mother would have derogatorily called a whore. She probably was. But then this was the real world, not cable porn-for-TV, and for all he knew that was the norm in big city fashion. It certainly would have fit right in at the Damned Circus if she changed the cloth shorts for leather. "What do you think?" He darted to an alley, after checking for traps, and gestured to where the woman had replaced her lipstick and was continuing on her merry way.  
  
Oz leaned back, eyes narrowed in thought as he watched shapely swaying hips, and shrugged. "First hooker of the evening. Can't be long before the rest show up." As if agreeing with his statement a nearby storefront's sign buzzed on showering the street in a bright lime green. "Go for it."  
  
"What? Me?" Xander squeaked. They darted along trying not to look rushed. Just a pair of potential misdemeanors waiting to happen. "Why me?"  
  
Oz gave him one of those patented Osbourne smiles that said everything and nothing. Though they did manage to make you not feel stupid. Just outmaneuvered. "I have a girlfriend. I can't be seen fraternizing with scarlet women."  
  
"Dude." Xander groaned. He had terrible luck with the female side of any species. Ten-to-One odds said he was about to be eaten. Xander took a fortifying breath and grasped Oz's shoulders mindful of the increase in foot traffic. "If I'm not back in five minutes, call in the cavalry."  
  
Oz gave a two fingered salute as Xander jogged down the street looking for the woman with the large breasts. It wasn't hard, he was now noticing several other ladies that had started popping out of the shadows and, Good God, what was that kid doing here? He looked dressed for a night out, and not the clubbing kind.  
  
"Focus, Harris." Xander grumbled and squashed the strange desire he had to grab the kid's hand and make him an honorary scooby. It would look damn weird for a ten year old to be giving orders to a teenager.  
  
The former high school student scanned the street utilizing skills earned through nights of playing spot-the-vampire, but had to admit he lost she-of-the-shiny-shirt. Xander stewed and tried not to stare at the slowly growing smorgasbord of flesh on display. If they stayed much longer things were going to get real awkward, real quick. Xander swallowed and spun around. "Pick a woman, any woman... where are the homeless guys when you want them?"  
  
Picking a random direction Xander began walking, thankful his blush was hidden by the hood of his orange sweater. He kept his hands in the front pocket playing with a bundle of cash and a knife. He knew Oz was around, staying out of sight, but hopefully he wouldn't need backup. It was just girls. Yup. The non-people eating kind.  
  
A pair of calf-high, maroon, heeled, leather boots seemed promising. Tasteful and comfortable for hours of street walking. Xander sidestepped a somewhat pudgy woman in fishnet and hurried over to the boots. "Hello, beautiful, sexy, gorgeous woman." The words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. Said woman turned, manicured eyebrow arching, with one fist on her hip. "Might I have a moment of your so-very-precious time?"  
  
She tapped her lips with a black lacquered nail and peered around, suspicious. "Is this some kind of trick? I don't do children... I don't do anyone."  
  
"No. Nope. No trick, and I don't want sex." Xander paused as he considered the statement that spilled from his mouth. Weird. He didn't want sex.  He'd certainly thought about it enough, but he didn't want it. What kind of teenage boy doesn't want sex? Evidently the kind that become age regressed. "But I would like to hire your excellent services, Milady."  
  
He hadn't realized it was possible for eyebrows to arch that high. Mr. Spock, eat your heart out. "You do realize what I am, why I'm standing here, in, this." She gestured to her leather miniskirt, slit up one side, and a three sizes too small red button-up blouse. Her tone wasn't harsh, but annoyed. She leaned against a grungy brick wall and preened, hand brushing soft brunette locks away from big bangle-like earrings. Her gaze was hard and glinting. Predatory.  
  
Christ on Crackers. He had done it again, hadn't he? A whole district full of ill-repute and he finds the one monster. Treat it like a 3D movie, inner-Jesse suggested, close your eyes and it will go away.  
  
Hmm. And that had worked so well for his fellow Trekkie. Well, she hadn't tried to knock him out or tie him up... "I know. You do... things... for money." Why was it so hard to say sex? "And I have money, and I would like you to do something for me."  
  
She sighed, purple painted lips pouting, and pushed off the wall. It was a smooth, fluid motion and done so quickly he almost missed it. She was kneeling in front of him, had pushed back his hood, and started sniffing him. Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. "You smell like vampires and wolves. Rats, too."  
  
Was that an insult or a question? Gods, this world was messed up. "And you smell like," he leaned forward, taking a good whiff dramatically. He expected cheap perfume and alcohol and there was that, but also something earthy. Warm and dusty and bloody. Hungry. Laughter echoed in his mind. Realization dropped the word from his lips like a twenty-ton brick. "Hyena."  
  
She blinked and her lips twitched. Her eyes flashed and Xander felt the beast beneath her skin try to peek out. The boy took a cautious step back because... that hadn't happened before. He never felt the animal in Oz, or any of the other shifters they'd met. Never. Sure there was a pressure, a way they carried themselves that gave it away, but not this...  
  
She was licking her lips. "I like you, kid." Was one of her nails scratching behind his ear? Like he was a dog? Yes. Yes it was. "But I doubt you could afford me."  
  
Xander felt for the wad of cash, suddenly grateful he managed to appropriate more funds from a certain unconscious individual. "Wanna bet?" He held the cash in his fist and grinned at her.  
  
She smiled in response, eyes on the money, and stood. All business. "Big spender. Shall we go into hourly rates, or is there a specific job you'd like?"  
  
Xander shrugged. "However long it takes us to get to the bus station and buy some tickets out of here."  
  
"Ah. Running away?" It was said as if she was commenting on the weather. "I did the same when I was your age. Name's Andromeda. Well, it is now."  
  
The last came out in a whisper that he barely heard. There was something wistful about it. Sad.  
  
Xander had always been a sucker for a pretty face and eyes full of tears, tears need not be visible. He stepped closer and took her hand. She startled, looking down, but a smile melted to her lips. Take away the trashcans, hookers, drug dealers, poorly maintained buildings, and they were just a mother and son out for a walk.  
  
Right.  


 

* * *

  
Anita tapped her pen against the legal sized notepad in frustration. Her next appointment wasn't for another ten minutes, some grandmother worried her son was joining a cult, but then it was the most apt description of the Church of Eternal Life that Anita had heard in a while. Even if the years had warmed her to the idea of vampires being people too, the idea that humans lined up for eternal night rubbed her raw.  
  
Was it bad she sometimes fantasized of burning down the church when she had to drive by it?  
  
No, no. She was getting off topic. Dolph called earlier to inform her that the geeks in tech were working on the computer, but it had more encryption than most government systems. A few hard-copy files turned up during the search but nothing to tell them the whys or the hows. Just the whats. Whats were a good thing to know. Even if it did cause bile to travel up from her liver into her mouth.  
  
Anita reached for her coffee mug and took a sip. It was personalized, last year's birthday gift, and stenciled above a broken gravestone were the words: I'm Raising Zombies, And I'm Still Alive. It was one of the more diplomatic things Ronnie had done before things really got out of control.  
  
I worry about you, she had said. Shit happens, yeah, but you don't need to do this alone. Going in without backup gets you dead.  
  
The last bit had ruined the movie night. Anita set her elbow on her work desk and stared at the door, chin propped in her hand while she sipped at her coffee. The clock above the door made a steady ticking as the second hand circled the face. Five minutes.  Would Mrs. Glasglow being anally punctual, early, or late? Fashionably late? Decently early? Right on time?  
  
She was so absorbed staring at the clock that when the phone rang the animator nearly fell out of her chair. She fumbled for the phone and wondered if it was the client canceling her appointment. Maybe her son was just sneaking out to pick up girls and drink? One could hope.  "Hello?"  
  
It was Mary, the daytime secretary. Her voice was calm and pleasant, cheerful, just the thing one wants in the first face potential money givers see when they walk into the office. Bert really knew how to pick them. "Anita, there's someone on the phone for you. He wouldn't tell me why, I told him you were busy."  
  
Huh? Anita glanced down at her notepad. What had started out as a bullet-point list of knowns and unknowns for the St. Peter's case had devolved into a poorly drawn stick animation of a person with bushy hair gunning down another figure in a lab coat. She really needed to get more sleep. Her concentration was all over the damn place.  
  
A check of the clock told her she had two minutes. "I'll talk to him."  
  
"Line three."  
  
She wondered who was on line two. Not important. "This is Blake." The voice was one she recognized, but in that way that was more like Deja-Vu than actually putting a time and place to it. "Come again?" Her voice hadn't just taken on a tone to melt glaciers, no sir, she was the picture of calm control.  
  
Her desk rattled as she slammed the phone back into the cradle and snapped up her notes. She slung her light summer jacket over her arm and headed for the door. Mary looked up as she passed, concerned, and there was a little old lady in tweed with her hair in a bun standing by the welcome desk. Mrs. Glasglow, presumably.  
  
Shit.  
  
"Mary, I'm sorry, but some," she nearly said Pack. All-nighters with Jean-Claude were more tiring than she thought. "Family business has come up. I need to reschedule."  
  
"Oh, dear." The secretary lost her smile for a moment, concern replacing it. "Is everything alright?"  
  
Anita didn't answer. She was already going out the door and down the stairs to her Jeep. She hated Mondays.  


 

* * *

  
The Master of the City paced in his personal chambers, the only place he felt remotely safe enough to drop near habitual control. Jean-Claude had not been the least bit pleased when he woke for the evening. He could feel the usual controlled order of the Circus disrupted as the rich vitality of his people swarmed like a nest of angry bees. Had he been any less than what he was, any other Master, he might have torn the throat out of the messenger.  
  
The children were missing. But then, he had to remind himself, they weren't children. Nothing that came out of the Valley of Death could be innocent. Jean-Claude felt his hands clench in frustration and anger. Anger at himself. He knew when he set out what he was dealing with. Skittish creatures, wary, with a potential for power that was intoxicating. Yet he allowed himself to become deluded by appearances. It was an unforgivable mistake as he often used such to mislead his own enemies.  
  
But then they had left a letter, or rather the little witch had, and it made things all the more exasperating. Thank you for everything, she claimed in formal cursive on paper that still held traces of her own peculiar scent, but we don't want to bother you much longer. Sorry about the mess.  
  
He didn't know whether to laugh or scream.  
  
"Jean-Claude?" There was a polite knock at the door. The vampire shook himself, marshaled his anger and tied it back, and let cool composure return. "Rafael and Lillian have arrived."  
  
Jean-Claude straightened the long lace cuffs of his sleeves and glided to the door. A mousy haired wolf stood waiting for him, submissive, and he dismissed her with a trickle of power. The Circus was working on a skeleton staff since the majority of their people out searching for the renegade children. He would have preferred to close and give all his attention to the matter, but it was summer. Too much business, and it would be telling to any rivals should he close for anything less than a Council visit.  
  
The halls were practically deserted. He entered the meeting room with grace and nodded to Richard who stood by a wall with eyes aglow. Contained violence. Anita whirled to face him when the door opened, fury lending her features a sort of exotic beauty, violence flowing free. "Jean-Claude! What the hell is going on?! How could you lose a couple of kids?"  
  
"I did not _lose_ them, ma petite. They left." If she noticed the dangerous quality in his words she gave no sign of it.  
  
"Yeah. Right. And you're telling me the Big Scary Vampire Master couldn't have stopped them? Do you realize just how tempting a target they are?!" Her power swirled like a dead thing. Cold like a snowfall, a blanket of strength that could turn into an unstoppable avalanche.  
  
He watched her. Lillian shifted in her seat, the epitome of patience beside her King. Rafael set back in his seat watching events with a small smile. Behind them was a new rat and one of the Anita's leopards, Cherry, stood holding a stack of files and tapping her foot nervously against the floor. It seemed to snap Anita out of her anger for the moment. "Where's Asher?"  
  
"He is indisposed at the moment." An understatement. There had been a brief moment where Jean-Claude had thought his Second was going to go into a killing rage. He'd cut out with his power, an unseen whip disbelief and anger, and nearly beheaded the poor shifter. He needed some time to calm himself, and a room with Anita would not do that. Damien stood in for him. His hair was a bloody frame for an expressionless face as jade eyes never lifted from the small, stewing woman in the room. His sword was at his hip.  
  
Strange. He normally kept it in his coffin.  
  
"I would rather get this done sometime this century, if it pleases you?" The woman who was a rat spoke as she held out a hand to the blonde leopard. "Or should we go?"  
  
The rat king closed his eyes, voice hard. "Lillian."  
  
She shrugged into her seat, getting comfortable.  
  
"What's this about?" Anita asked harshly, uncertain. Jean-Claude took a seat away from the oak table. "Why aren't we out there?"  
  
"I doubt our eyes will help much more. Many of my vampires are already out looking, as are those shifters not necessary to keep things running."  
  
She had to be difficult. It was, Jean-Claude admitted, a good thing. If things were too easy, one became complacent, and when one became complacent there was arrogance and sloppiness and then the End. He wished to avoid that if at all possible.  
  
"I'll start with the wolf. Aside from the fact that his particular lycanthropy strain is something I've never seen before, and it eats everything else placed before it-"  
  
"Eats?" Anita interrupted, dark eyes confused. "A virus doesn't eat anything."  
  
Lillian simply glanced at her and passed over the medical report she had compiled. "I cannot think of an alternative word choice. Simply put, exposure to his blood, possibly any bodily fluids, results in a one hundred percent infection rate. Also, he should be dead." Gray eyes glanced to Rafael for confirmation.  
  
"His full name is Daniel Osbourne. Oz. Five years ago nearly all his relations were slaughtered during a family reunion in the mountains. A pair of rouge lycanthropes, wolves. He was on the dead list."  
  
Now what did one say to that? "Interesting."  
  
"Very." Rafael sat back. A glass of ice water was untouched on the table.  
  
"The other boy, Xander Harris," The rat behind them twitched at the name, but he did not move from his guard position. "Should also be dead. I've checked and double checked my findings, but it is all the same. He has one of the strangest cases of Mowgli Syndrome I've ever seen."  
  
Another report was passed around as the doctor continued, and there was tension around her eyes. "Multiple strains of ichthyoid DNA."  
  
"He's a fish? I didn't know there were fish lycans."  
  
"Neither did I." Lillian responded with forced calm. "Aside from the fact that in all past cases even one animal strain in a child results in instability and ultimately death, these aren't even compatible to mammalian structure. His body should be destroying itself... but it's not. I don't understand it. I'd like to run more tests but..." She trailed off.  
  
Jean-Claude was tempted to smile at the thought of the small yellow-haired warrior. "And the others? Are they, too, impossibilities?"  
  
Lillian shook her head. "No. The witch is human. Her electrolyte and serotonin levels are little off, but nothing unusual. Buffy has a mild case of Vlad Syndrome but-" The doctor cut off, her beast rising in response to perceived threat.  
  
Jean-Claude stared at her. His heart sped up, his skin pulled against his bones, and his power surged. It wasn't possible. Couldn't be possible, not since before he was born... "Fille de Morte." The words rasped past his lips.  
  
Damien wasn't looking at Anita any more. He was staring at Jean-Claude and something nameless flitted behind those cat like eyes. He knew the legends, whispers, bed-time stories for all good little vampires. He likely knew more than Jean-Claude.  
  
"Jean-Claude?" Richard. The wolf was looking at him through human eyes, and the tone was not filled with fear but worry. He should be. Vampires rarely had children. The older the vampire, the less likely chances of offspring became. On those few occasions a child resulted from a coupling it was male. Always. Even unto the seventh generation afterward. Anything other came out a twisted mutation, a mockery of life.  
  
"What is a Daughter of Death?" Anita's words were accusations. It was a question Damien took pleasure in answering. The former viking smiled, eyes glittering with wonder and something akin to broken glass. No doubt he had paid dearly for the information he had to share.  
  
"The only thing She-Who-Made-Me ever feared."  


 

* * *

  
She tried to move her wrist, to get some slack, but the straps were too tight. They weren't taking anymore chances after she nearly killed the woman with the needle. A stupid human woman with a stupid needle and its stupid potion. It was a pity there hadn't been a knife handy to take the woman's scalp.  
  
Her hair had been awfully pretty. It glittered in the light, golden-white, and reminded her of a thousand other people. Hundreds of lifetimes. Hadn't her mother had that hair color? No, she was a brunette. Or was it darker than that?  
  
Blonde. Definitely blonde. Buffy nodded sluggishly to herself and peered up with nutmeg eyes at the medicine man in his white coat and self satisfied smile. Disgusting, smarmy male he was. She gave a discrete sniff and scowled. Pheromones, sex, the faint scent of expensive aftershave over some knockoff brand of perfume attempted to conceal the give away scent of something that had to die. "Halbe Brut."  
  
The words came from her lips, but Buffy didn't know what they meant or why she said them. When had she gotten back in the hospital? Why? The gown was wet with sweat from hours of struggling and uncomfortable.  A thought clogged her throat: had she ever left?  
  
"Now, Dana. Relax. You remember me, right? Doctor Rabinaw." He smiled sadly and she shook in fury. Her arms jerked but the manacles held strong. Weak. She was weak. She couldn't afford to be weak and they were making her weak. Keeping her down. Easy prey. Did they not know who she was? What she was? Impossible.  
  
"Pensi che questo potra  salvarti?" Her lips peeled back from her teeth as she peered up at him through messy dark hair. When had she dyed it? And yet... hadn't it always been this coal black color? It used to be cleaner, straighter, she had been doing better they said. So much better... "Sono stata scelta. Da poteri che non potete cominciare a comprendere. Berra nella vostra morte e fara una letto con le vostre ossa."  
  
He simply blinked curiously, snapped his fingers as if remembering something, and took a recorder from his pocket. "Care to repeat that, for posterity, please?" His finger pressed down on a little red button. "This is just until I can get the superintendent to sign off on use of the audio room."  
  
She shrugs, movement hampered by the thick leather restraint across her chest. Tilting her head, she tracks him like a dog watching a bird. Or a lion a gazelle. He sits back in a chair, balanced casually, white coat gleaming in the harsh light of the room. The world tilts and Buffy's no longer in the mental ward of some hospital, but in a cold place with stone and mortar walls and flaming torches.  
  
The doctor isn't the doctor. He's wearing something out of the middle ages, leather and wool, hands gleaming with gold rings that flicker in the light. "Dana." His voice is the same, though, with that hint of excitement and something else.  
  
Her mouth waters.  
  
She hears words echo in her head, but his lips don't move, and when she glances down at her wrists the leather has been replaced by chains. "Sabemos que has hecho un trato con el diablo bruja, confiesa."  
  
With a blink they are back in the room in the hospital, calming blue walls and cold tiled floors and the anchored chair with padded leather bindings. Laughter peels out like broken bells, and Buffy can't for the life of herself figure out why she's laughing. Because nothing about the situation is funny or makes the slightest bit of sense. It finally clicks on in her mind, she's not really here, just a passenger in a body. Like on Halloween. But this girl, this Dana, is far from helpless.  
  
"You're thinking too small." She giggles out, half-crazed, refusing to meet his eyes.  
  
The doctor nods and pulls out a notebook from a pocket. He clicks a fancy wooden pen, poised, and smiles encouragingly. "Tell me more about the monsters, Dana."  
  
But that moment of vague lucidity has fled and she's back to staring at him. Fantasizing. How much sweet blood would pour out if she used that pen? Her arms move again, straining with everything she can possibly muster, and the sound of twisting metal is beautiful to her ears. They couldn't keep her from throwing up the magic pellets. They can't keep her. Others have tried. Failed. "Corazon, y cuello. Corazon y cuello. Corte para el polvo..."  
  
"Security! Nurse!" He's screaming, stumbling backward with his little notebook the most pathetic of shields. The door with the tiny wire-lined window bursts open and big beefy men come in. She whirls, jerked to a stop by the strap still holding her left arm down as her hand drops the crushed latch that had been on the one across her chest. Big men. Strong men. With needles.  
  
She elbows one of them. He moves away gasping. Someone snakes around her guard and the slip of metal goes in to release its load. The world spins and starts going black as they pile onto her. She screams in defiance, and Buffy's screaming too, adding to the din, because she knows what it's like. Knows how they poke and prod and dissect and keep talking and tricking until you don't know left from right. Up from down. Fact from fiction.  
  
Until all that is left are you and the screaming, snarling faces of your dreams as they dance in the fire on your mind.  


 

* * *

  
"Buffy!" Green eyes are only an inch from her own and they're pretty. So very pretty. Like sparkling emeralds dripping water. She didn't know jewels could cry. "Buffy..."  
  
Willow's body scoots back, shuddering with relief, and she sniffles while wiping at her face with her pink Old Navy shirt sleeve.  
  
There's something in her mouth. The blonde sits up and spits. It's a sock. Luckily, a clean sock, and from the blue and gray alternating stripes she's going to say it's hers. Boys don't usually go for color on socks. Well, she doesn't think they do. Her father's were always white and her mom liked complaining how they were pain to match up. "What happened?" Buffy's voice comes out raw and gritty. She works her jaw trying to get moisture back and glances around their temporary HQ. Not near as fancy as the Circus, but it breathes.  
  
She can breath in it, and soft patter of various rodents in the rafters doesn't really bother her.  
  
It doesn't really get cold at night, not in the summer, but Willow's still wearing a jacket zipped up. The sleeves are too long and hide her hands in folds of red, yellow, blue, and green. She's absolutely hugable. "You were taking a nap," Buffy did remember drifting off while waiting for the boys to get back from their side quest. None of them had gotten any sleep last night. Too much nervous energy. "And you just... went all still. Then you started screaming. I didn't know what to do."  
  
Damn. Screaming bloody murder would have totally called the authorities. It didn't matter what district of the town they were in. Uptown they'd do it out of common courtesy, maybe, downtown they'd do it just to shut you up. If she went by the pain of her throat Buffy was willing to bet she'd been screaming for a while. She shuddered. Willow passed her a bottle of water. "You did fine, Wills."  
  
The red head sat with her chin on her knees, curled up. Guilt shown on her face, but Buffy couldn't begin to think of why her friend would feel that way. Freaked, yeah, but guilt? "Was it a Slayer dream?"  
  
Buffy swished the water around in the bottle and let memory of rage and terror flow over her. It was easier, awake, to deal with it. Something inside her quaked and fled from the memory. She didn't blame it.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Honestly, she didn't want to.


	14. 'Tis a Silly Place

Willow traced patterns in the dust with her finger while worrying her lower lip deep in thought. She did not like this world. For a while it seemed bearable, she had her best friends and the love of her life with her, but Fate seemed determined to squish the scoobies under her sandal-wrapped heel. Bitchiest goddess ever. Probably related to Cordelia.  
  
Either way, this world, dimension, plane, whatever, was so not of the fun. She was a witch, so she _should_ be able to fit in. Right? But she had seen that newspaper. The clipping was still in her notebook, glued to a page with some gum, but it served as a reminder of how much this whole place creeped her out. For one simple little love spell, and just how many had she, Amy, and Micheal performed to help a guy get the courage to ask a girl out she didn't know, a woman had been put to death. Granted her use of her powers was a little extreme and the goddess should have NEVER let it go through, but still...   
  
All good little Willows knew when to curtail experiments and keep their heads down. It was like a survival instinct. Hopefully Mr. Claude wouldn't be upset enough to press charges. She wasn't entirely sure what was legal and what was not. If vampires could walk around and feed on people with impunity, yet a witch using magic in any offensive capacity was frowned upon anything was possible.  
  
The littlest witch sighed, blowing strands of her hair out of her face, and lay back on the floor with her arms hugging her chest in comfort. The boys hadn't gotten back yet, and Buffy was way too antsy after her nightmare to do anything but go look for them leaving Willow to hold down the fort. She wiggled her toes in her new shoes. "Hurry back, guys." She whispered with her eyes closed. The rapid beat of a squirrel running across the roof only emphasized how alone she was. An ever present ice cold fear squeezed her heart.   
  
No matter how disturbing he had been, Willow would have gladly welcomed the ghost's company. But he could not leave the place of his death, or so he claimed. Willow wasn't sure if she believed him but it wasn't like she was an expert or anything. The flickering silvery cloud from upstairs had already been disbursed: that had been the first order of business when Buffy led them into the abandoned shelter. So she was alone. Completely. Not a spirit or soul to keep her company.  
  
Willow rolled over onto her side and zipped open the duffel. She needed to do something. Anything. She began taking out things and sorting them into two piles, Buffy's and hers.  
  


* * *

  
Up ahead the lights of an ambulance flashed silently, cutting through the dark like a beacon to all law enforcement officers. Perry turned off the road and onto the long gravel driveway that led to an old two-story built some time during the antebellum period. Only one light was on giving the place a feeling of lonely abandonment. A uniform was already headed for his car before he had a chance to come to a full stop let alone kill the engine. The man was of average height, brown hair, hazel eyes, and nothing special. Perry gave a him a polite nod as he stepped out of his car and shut the door. "What do we have," he spared a glance for the name tag. "Officer McKinnon?"  
  
"Bad shit."  
  
You don't say? Perry was unruffled. Truthfully Sargent Storr or Detective Zebrowski should have been out to the crime scene first, but they were both booked. Storr was chewing out someone in the upper management and his second was down trying to arrange for something to be done for the shifters in containment. Several of their superiors were all for euthanasia; put the poor son-of-a-bitches down and out of their misery. Out of their hair.  
  
But it wasn't right, and Grandmother Perry didn't raise her grandson to do wrong.  
  
They ended up walking around the large house and through grass that came up to their knees. Give another week or two and it would have reached their thighs and been perfect for quail hunting. Perry kept his musings to himself as the soft rush of water reached his ears and the ground became softer. Someone was crying, trying to stop, but having difficulties. He turned to see a teenage girl wrapped in a thick red blanket from the ambulance, eyes wide in shock, with a another teen holding her shoulders. The boy's gaze was empty. Perry would have bet a gun could be levered in his face and he wouldn't bat an eyelash.  
  
"Witness'?" He asked as they approached a dock on the river, a small tributary that feed into the Mississippi.  
  
McKinnon nodded. "Girl, Ruby Laurme, found the body first. Her scream brought the boy out. They're siblings. The Vic was a classmate, friend, the house belongs to their parents."  
  
"Vacation?" They didn't walk onto the bridge but under it where a heavy duty Mag Light had been set up. Mud squelched under his dress shoes and Perry suppressed a wince, not because of the shoes, but because of what was waiting beneath the bridge. They hadn't gotten as much rain as usual for the time of year and the little river wasn't flowing near as much as it could have been. It was more of a stream, and their victim had discovered this fact, painfully.   
  
Almost on instinct Perry mentally recited a psalm for deliverance. She couldn't have been much older than twenty, not even old enough to drink, but she was already dead. Little Daisy Dukes showed off long, slim, broken legs leading to feet trailing into muddy water. She wasn't wearing a shirt. The checkered garment had been ripped off and stuffed in her mouth as a gag. Short blonde hair fanned out around her face, eyes frozen in pain and terror, while her arms were tied apart.   
  
She would have appeared to be floating, trapped in some magical amber, if not for the red lacerations around her wrists. The detective stepped forward, mind carefully blank, and used his pen light to take a closer look. "Fishing line." The strong test line had been wrapped around her wrists and tied to the support beams of the dock. Her own weight had caused it to cut almost bone-deep into her skin and blood dripped from her wounds were the wire reflected the yellow beam of his light.   
  
Officer McKinnon refused to look at the body. He kept his eyes on the water as if waiting for something to jump out. "Ms. Laurme said she was supposed to be fishing. Didn't want to play Nintendo with the rest of them. Never came in for dinner."  
  
"Guess she caught something." Perry rolled up his dress pants and snapped on his gloves. The shoes were a lost cause. He tried to ignore the way the blood-soaked mud was filling his shoes and reached for the girl's chest. Her bra was gone, probably tossed aside and lost to the current, but he didn't feel the slightest bit of embarrassment. Her chest had been cut open with almost surgical precision, ribs pulled until they snapped, and the organs shuffled around like she was a puzzle instead of a person.  
  
A few were laying out on rocks as if removed for a closer inspection.   
  
"When did this happen?"  
  
"Not totally sure yet, but we're saying between three and seven. That's when the sister came out to find her."  
  
Perry wondered why RPIT had gotten the call. Vampires didn't torture their victims like this. Rogue shifters would have, at least, eaten the organs. They simply set there, untouched and slowly baking in the summer heat. He stepped back and to the side to get air; the smell was suffocating. "Detective Perry?"  
  
Dark eyes stared at her neck. He almost didn't notice it, concealed as it was by the fringes golden hair, but tiny red blotches stood out like chiggers in straw. Perry swallowed back the urge to puke and stepped to the side, brushing blonde locks away, and exhaled.  
  
Ruth. The name had been carved into her skin, carefully, at the nape of her neck. Right where Eve had been. "Did Miss Ruby see anything?"  
  
McKinnon nodded, and as they left the body and climbed up the bank Perry noticed how the beat cop kept one hand by his sidearm. He didn't need to answer, though, because as they came up the girl looked up at them fresh tears in her eyes. Her mouth moved, soundless, before she swallowed and managed to speak in broken starts and stops. "It laughed. Why would it laugh? Since when do crocodiles laugh?"  
  
The boy was the same as before, lost in his own little world, but his arm tightened around his sister as she gave a shudder and buried her head in his shoulder.   
  
Perry needed to talk to them, get their statements himself, but he figured they could use a bit of time. They weren't going anywhere. He walked back to his patrol car, shoulders slumped, absently wiping mud off his shoes and onto the grass as he went. More people had arrived while he had been examining the body but it wasn't enough. It wouldn't bring that little blonde back.  
  
He reached in through the window and keyed his radio, waiting for the other side to pick up.  
  


* * *

  
They ran, two small figures ghosting past parked cars, around streetlamps, and the occasional pedestrian. They avoided the last as much as possible. Oz led the way trusting his senses to keep them clear of anything too dangerous. If he stopped to think about what he was doing it would have felt awkward, so he didn't. Like the time when Willow and Xander were taken by the bleached bastard he didn't rationalize it; he just followed his instincts and let the animal inside do what it did best.  
  
Though from what he had learned while at That Place, whispers from other inmates and scoffing nurses, he was even better than the usual. Not many shifters could detect the scent of their mate when said mate was locked underground, had been for a while, and the shifter in question was riding in a van and STILL in human form. But Oz had needed to find his Willow, and the beast wanted to know their mate was safe, and it all just worked. Synergy.  
  
He had been experiencing that unique cooperation and blending with his inner-fuzzy with increasing frequency ever since they landed on their butts in the middle of that dead-zone of a forest with the full moon only two days away when they should have had a good two weeks before his date with a cage. Waking up had been followed by a scrambled panicking because Oz did not want to wolf out and eat his friends and they, understandably, felt no desire to be eaten.  
  
They had just fought a big-ass snake in the hopes of avoiding that fate.  
  
But while sitting in that government cell, naked and staring at a wire guarded clock, Oz learned something important. His beast wasn't near as pissed as it usually was. Before, in Sunnydale, the wolf was a part of him but still apart from him. It was an entity in its own right, like a parasite of sorts, that fed off of him and controlled him according to the lunar cycle. And it was always, always agitated. There was this need to run around, do something, attack and defend that he just couldn't shake even when he knew it was wrong.   
  
Here though?  Here it was quiet. He hadn't noticed at first since That Place was all sorts of bad juju and his wolf never felt safe. Now though, out of there and away from all the potential threats the other therinthropes had represented, surrounded by friends, the beast had calmed down. Instead of being apart from him it was him. Fully integrated. They weren't fighting each other so much, hardly at all, and it made him wonder.  
  
Maybe it was the Hellmouth, all that bad energy, that warped the wolf? A constant threat the wolf recognized but the human did not? He wished he had Giles to talk things over with. The librarian knew all sorts of esoteric stuff and if he didn't know the answer, he almost always knew where to look or who to ask. Who knew what it could mean for werewolves all over if they could learn to accept their beast and gain control, like the control lycanthropes here evidently had? The idea had merit, but first they had to get home.  
  
If they could get home.  
  
With a small frown marring his usually placid features at that depressing thought, Oz held up a fist and pressed himself into the shadows of an alleyway. Xander slowed down and joined him. It had been a problem getting away from Andromeda, not because she registered as too much of a threat, but because she didn't want to leave. She went and bought the tickets for them after collecting her fee, but then she was way too curious about it.   
  
Whatever happened to apathy toward your fellow man? In the end Oz had to pull up his inner beast and let its dominance wash over and alert everything supernatural on the street. It successfully distracted the hyena enough for Xander to slip away into the teeming masses, but also caused Oz himself to stick out like a big fish in a small pond.  
  
Luckily, Oz was well versed in running from hungry vampires and other sorts of nasties. He didn't know the terrain as well as he would have liked, but he was small, fast, with senses far superior to any other human form shifter... and it helped that none of the betas wanted anything to do with a pissed off alpha.  
  
He and Xander waited with measured breaths as they watched the cop car cruise on by from the safety of the night's shadows. The vehicle appeared to be headed somewhere specific, not just intimidating potential troublemakers, which was a good thing. For them. Probably not so much the people at its intended destination. The two boys slouched and tried to look like common hoodlums as they crossed the street. It wasn't that hard. Baggy but fit clothing, hands in pockets, general pissy aura... yeah. They were totally slum'n it out. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I feel too clean." Xander whispered out of the side of his mouth as he eyed a street corner where a group of thugs were standing around looking at something.   
  
Oz completely understood the sentiment, but it didn't bother him. His beast knew it could wipe the floor with any humans they came up against, and give anything else a good run for their money. It was small, but mighty!  
  
They hustled across the street and slipped behind a pawnshop. Oz pulled back a bit of chain-link and Xander went through into an overgrown back lot. They trudged around old tires, bits of car parts, a fridge, and various other nick-knacks before reaching a boarded up building. Oz threaded his fingers together to make a step for Xander, who then reached up and began working the boards on the window back and forth until the nails slid out and they could enter the building.   
  
Oz heaved the other boy inside and stepped back, a smile on his face. If there was one good point about this freaky world, it was how much of the wolf he could bring to his human side. Amber eyes gleamed as he eyed the narrow window of the old storehouse/tenement building. Had he been his nineteen-year-old self it wouldn't have been too much of a problem. As it was... His sneakers padded over scraggly grass as he cracked his neck.   
  
He charged the building, felt a warm rumble in his chest, and jumped.  
  
As he cleared the window and rolled into the room, landing in a sort of half crouching roll, he wondered if this was what Buffy felt like all the time; filled with strength and power.   
  
It was neat.  
  
Having his uncontrolled momentum carry him into a pile of empty paint cans followed by getting a smack on the head from a worried girlfriend, not so much. And he _did_ hear Xander laughing in the corner despite the other boy's efforts to turn away and cover his mouth.  
  


* * *

  
There was something about watching a seventy-three year old man confess his undying love to an even older corpse that just rubbed her wrong. Anita stood to the side, trying to give her client privacy, but it was difficult. The guy had actually written a poem. The zombie, nearly a hundred years old, was a woman dressed in a tattered white dress and string-of-pearl simply looked on in amusement.  
  
Who knew childhood crushes continued on even after death?  
  
The whole thing was rather sad, and the animator could think of a hundred other things she could be doing and who she could be doing them to.  Not all of those actions were friendly. Anita didn't not want to be working the animator route; she wanted to be out beating bushes.  
  
The Master of the City's Human Servant shot a glance over her shoulder to check on Mr. Gregory. The zombie, complete with gaping holes in her cheeks showing off pre-age-of-dentistry teeth, had reached out and placed a hand on the client's shoulder. A gentle decline, then. Anita wiped half-heartedly at the goat blood on her arms but only managed to spread it around.  She looked like an axe murderer fresh off the job, but the goat hadn't been nearly as stupid or drugged as she would have liked and it was a necessary element to keep Bert from realizing just how strong she was. If he knew she'd be out raising zombies all night, the older the better, and the more her greedy bastard of a boss would charge.

It wasn't that she hated the work, but a girl needed time to herself.  
  
The sound of footfalls were nearly absorbed by the thick grass of the cemetery. "Thank you, Ms. Blake." Came the formal, cultured tone of the client. You couldn't guess that just minutes ago he had been trying to convince a corpse to marry him once his cancer brought them togethe again. Gave a whole new meaning to the term Corpse Bride.   
  
"No trouble, Mr. Gregory." See? She could separate personal life from work. Anita hefted her machete as she marched back over to the grave. Luckily things had been a little slow this week and it was her last appointment for the night, though more than likely Bert was going to grill her tomorrow for missing her first raising. Manning had taken it for her while she'd been in the meeting at the Circus.  
  
"That time then, dear?" The zombie asked softly. She primly adjusted the folds of her skirt and looked down at her headstone. "I knew my kids loved me but... well, little Tomas was especially affectionate."  
  
"You understand what's going to happen?"  
  
Kristine, the zombie, managed to arch an eyebrow as if vaguely insulted. "Of course." Anita got a flash of her old neighbor, Mrs. Pringle, and inwardly sighed. Oh, this job was all kinds of fun. A school teacher. Tomas Gregory was crushing on his old, dead, school teacher. It was like a bad day time soap opera only with more rotting flesh. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs. Witch-Doctor."  
  
"I'm not-" Anita cut off. No point in arguing with the zombie. She was just an echo of who she had been. An imprint. A product of the time and environment the woman she resembled had lived in. Anita reached into a pocket and flung salt at the woman as she sat on her own gravestone and waved a cheery goodbye to her old student. "With salt I bind you to your grave."  
  
Mr. Gregory blushed from where he stood by his car and waved back. Anita noticed the fresh slip of paper tucked between the zombies white lace glove and her wrist. The poem? The animator gestured with her machete and the zombie delicately swiped some blood from the blade with a finger and raised it to her lips. Anita hadn't thought drinking blood could be done with so much dignity. "With blood and steel I bind you to your grave, Kristine Farmers. Be at peace, and walk no more."  
  
Anita watched as the undead school marm slid from her perch on the headstone and melted into the earth. Her eyes were dreamy, somehow retaining a level of moisture throughout the years, and a small smile graced her chapped and stretched lips. She looked like she was going to sleep.  
  
It was nice to have something go smoothly for once. It probably wouldn't last.  
  
Anita left the grave site, dragging the dead goat behind her and flinging it into the back of the jeep, before heading out. Mr. Gregory had already driven off after the consignment of his childhood sweetheart to her coffin. Anita flicked on the headlights and reached into her passenger seat for the box of wet-wipes. Blood was a bitch to get out of, well, just about everything. Nathaniel had bought the box of wipes from an eco-friendly shop and supposedly they would decompose. She didn't feel the slightest bit of guilt throwing the red-stained cloths out the window as she drove.   
  
And if they didn't dissolve with time? The birds will put it in their nest, as her father used to say.  
  
Anita kept driving. Normally she would head home for a shower and then snuggle into bed. She could use the rest, her body all but screamed its demands for sleep, but she just couldn't get herself to calm down. Ever since she had become an Executioner things had been growing steadily more complicated, when it really shouldn't have been, and there was an almost predictable pattern to things.   
  
Something bad happens. Anita investigates. More bad things happen. Bad guy makes an appearance/demand. Even more bad things happen. Anita kills bad guy and status quo returns.  
  
It was funny in a way. If she didn't feel like they were in that 'more bad things happen' stage she might have laughed. Anita turned off the road and into a little shopping center. Most of the stores were closed because of the late hour, but one white and green sign gleamed as the red electric OPEN blinked on and off. The Pancake Shack, Waffle House's ugly stepsister, may have had substandard food but their coffee was always hot and fresh.  
  
Anita pulled up and glanced into the rearview mirror. Her hair was presentable, and she had managed to clean the worst of the blood away, but her clothing was in deep need of a dry cleaner. Shame they wouldn't be open till six.  
  
"Welcome to the Pancake Shack." The hostess, a girl still in her early teens called through a bubble-gum filled mouth as she looked the smaller woman up and down. "Rough night?"  
  
"Something like that." Anita waved her off and headed for a booth where she could spread out her papers. There was a report she had to write up for the Marshal above her, and then the recovered files from St. Peters she had yet to have time to really go through what with all the chaos of those missing, found, and now missing again children. Thank God she hadn't told Dolph that Jean-Claude had found them. He would likely accuse the vampire of eating them. "Coffee. Black."  
  
The teenager popped her bubblegum and bobbed her head while sashaying toward the small platoon of coffee makers.   
  
Anita removed the extra large rubber band keeping the files together and glanced wistfully at the St. Peters documents. She hated not being able to act, but the chance of there being a clue as to the whereabouts of Walsh in that mess was slim-to-none. RPIT would have gone through it all with a fine tooth comb and told her if there was. She could be out there looking for the kids, but she'd only met them once and did she expect them to jump out at her asking for protection? She wished something would happen. The inaction was going to drive her nuts.   
  
She hated it when Jean-Claude was right. Smug, sexy bastard.  
  
The mug made a little clink as the girl set down her order of coffee and resumed her post by the door. The executioner took a sip, savored the dark, rich flavor, and paged open the medical files Dr. Lillian had seen fit to give them. The mowgli boy was, in a word, disturbing. Aside from him being part sushi, there was a long and detailed list of injuries. Stab wounds and slashes that looked as though they had been made by claws and blades as well as past broken bones. The little red head didn't have near as many scars like that, as if she had stayed out of the main fray, but those burns on her legs made Anita grip her mug so hard she was surprised it didn't crack.  
  
Sunnydale.  
  
She wanted to find those kids and tell them everything would be okay. They probably wouldn't believe her. Who wouldn't be paranoid after making it out of the closest thing to hell on earth?  
  
Dark brown, almost black, eyes scanned over the file for the wolf. She read line-by-line, hoping for some clue to help her understand what might be going through the minds of the children, and backtracked to reread a paragraph. Dr. Lillian hadn't been exaggerating when she tried to tell them the virus ate everything. Anita had a degree in preternatural biology. She knew what those big, polysyllable words meant. "Oh. God." Jean-Claude had a copy of the report, and he may have been old style French, but he kept up with the times. Ten-to-one odds he understood what it meant, too.  
  
They had to find that boy, and she had to keep him away from Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude could call wolves and had a love affair with power that went back centuries. She didn't want to think it, but part of her knew that he was fully capable of using Oz's strain of lycanthropy to his advantage. All he would have to do is put an invading group of shifters in the same room with the boy, wait for full moon, and then come in to sweep up the remains.  
  
Despite the steaming coffee in her hands and the warm summer air, Anita felt cold.   
  
Her beeper went off successfully startling her from her dark thoughts. She pulled it from her belt to check the number. Dolph.   
  
They were definitely in the more bad things happen stage. Anita glanced skyward. She should have known better than to wish for something to do. Sometimes God delivered.  
  


* * *

  
Everywhere. They were everywhere. Buffy watched them through the cafe's window as the pair walked by, rolling a stake around in her palm, and lowering the bill of her borrowed baseball cap. It wasn't that her slayer instincts screamed WEREWOLVES-DANGER, rather it was all in the way they moved. There was a fluid sort of grace in every movement that showed they were absolutely comfortable in their own skin. Humans didn't have that. Whether they admitted it or not, for all their dangerous ingenuity, humanity was not the top of the food chain and it showed in every fidget, every subconscious tick, every motion of uncertainty. Buffy, slayer of all things bumpy-in-the-night, knew this. The high turn-over rate of slayers bore testament to their humanity. Chosen she may be, but there was always a replacement waiting in the wings.  
  
It was almost enough to make a girl feel unwanted. Which was why she had her backup. Why she had her scoobies. Without them she would have met her slayer expiration date long ago, and stayed there.  
  
Buffy slid out of her chair, left a few bills on the table to pay for the pie, and slipped out the door of the small restaurant. She flicked her ponytail over her shoulder kept her head down. She had yet to find Xander or Oz, but she didn't think they had been recaptured. She was fairly certain she would know if they had. It was like some kind of rule of bad-guys: capture her friends, gloat about it, then get punched in the face. Rinse and repeat. It didn't matter if there were... hundreds... of shifters out and about looking for them. Not to mention the cops. Buffy was pretty sure trashing a government facility was a jail-worthy offense, even if it was for a good cause.  
  
Maybe the construction companies would give them a commission? They could probably get jobs in demolitions. Buffy and Oz could pound stuff, Xander could explode things, and Willow... well, give the witch enough time and no doubt she could come up with some spell of semi-mass destruction. It could totally work! Buffy sighed as the fantasy slipped away. No one would hire a bunch of elementary school age kids to blow stuff up, no matter how good they were at it. Those that would were probably of the unsavory type.  
  
The blonde walked along, periodically scanning the street and altering her course, wondering if maybe her friends had made it back to the hideout. She absently kicked at a broken bit of cement, followed it, and kicked it again. "Oh, dear." Buffy's body went perfectly still. Unholy Snyder. She'd been so focused on avoiding the supernatural elements she forgot entirely about the human ones. "Where are your parents? You shouldn't be alone so late."  
  
The woman certainly appeared earnest enough. Her own blonde hair was tied back in a high and tight ponytail, though it made her look professional rather than childish like Buffy's. Buffy forced her body to relax and gave the officer a smile filled with sticky sweetness and innocence as she clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward. "I'm not alone." Buffy answered promptly in a sing-song tone. "I'm with my Daddy, but he's in the gett'n place and I'm supposed to wait outside until he's done getting stuff."   
  
"I see." But she didn't. The policewoman frowned and looked around, clearly searching for the mysterious Daddy. She looked back down at Buffy, squinted, and reached toward her back pocket. Buffy tensed. Years of avoiding the SDPD, followed by the revelation of the Mayor and his network, had developed within her a deep distrust of any and all law enforcement. But it was only a piece of paper. Nothing more. Buffy allowed herself to relax and took a step away. The officer was looking from Buffy to the paper, back and forth, before her eyes lit up in comprehension. Not good. Buffy booked it. "Wait!"  
  
She didn't. Buffy ran, hit the street, and kept running. The officer followed with a dogged determination and Buffy once again cursed her size. She had never been tall, but her opponent only had to take one step for every three of her own! Not to mention all the late night pedestrians walking around being human obstacles. Slayer speed or no, if she didn't have the space to use and put distance between them she was screwed. Well, she thought, if you can't beat 'um... Buffy broke for the thick of the crowds. It was a dangerous gamble to be out in the open like this, but the woman chasing her would act as a sort of camouflage. Most sane people did not want to be involved in a police chase. They would avert their eyes from the trouble maker and her authoritative purser. She was faster and more nimble, not to mention her smaller form quickly became enveloped in the many bodies crossing the street, with any luck it would work.  
  
Buffy ducked and rolled between someone's legs only to come up in a sprinter's crouch and staring into violet eyes. The pretty boy looked surprised, concerned, and opened his mouth to say something while reaching out a hand to her.  Frustration painted her cheeks with heat. All that effort to avoid the bloody weres and here she runs right into one. She recognized him; he served the vampires. Buffy snarled and swatted the hand away while taking off down the sidewalk.   
  
Much of the time she had gained by detouring through the crowd was lost during the exchange of slayer and shifter. The cop was tailing her, arms and legs pumping in her attempt to keep up. Buffy spotted an alley entrance and zipped into it, her eyes lighting up in victory, and she leapt with everything she had. Her small hands wrapped around a metal pipe and her momentum swung her around the beam twice before she squeezed down. Her muscles protested and the pipe jerked in its moorings but held, and she froze in a perfect handstand. Thank you, after school cheer squad gymnastics club. If the tactic could fool two-hundred year old vampires, it could fool a human.  
  
Hopefully. Buffy tried to calm her heart and think unseen thoughts.  
  
The cop passed beneath her, panting, "Damn. That girl is fast." The lady bent over, catching her breath, and looked around the alley in a sort of stunned amazement. She opened a trashcan, checked behind a dumpster, before continuing toward the alley exit. She did not look up. Buffy watched as the woman pulled a bulky police radio type thing from her belt and held down the switch. "This is Kirlin, subject last seen at the intersection of Maple and..."  
  
Her voice faded as she continued on the path Buffy might have taken if she wasn't hiding in plain sight. The blonde slayer counted out a minute in her head, though she could have held her position for another ten before fatigue became a problem, before swinging down and landing lightly on her feet. She threw her cap onto a pile of trash bags and shook out her hair, then she shrugged off her coat and tied it around her waist. Not the best disguise, but it would have to do.   
  
Buffy snuck out of the alley and backtracked. She wanted to know what had been on that slip of paper to cause Officer Kirlin to react like she had. It took another ten minutes to get back to her starting point, though it was a little suspicious how the amount of lycanthropes about hadn't increased with their sighting of her. At least until Buffy's Spidey senses blared at her. Green eyes darted to the left and right, she spun in a circle, but there was nothing. On a whim, partly because she had so recently employed a similar tactic, Buffy glanced up and caught sight of figure heading toward her position. "Sweet Baby Jesus." Buffy ran and threw herself beneath a parked car. Who had the bright idea of giving vampires the ability to fly? It wasn't freaking fair! Her face burned as she fought the urge to scream and throw a tantrum that would likely result in collateral damage.   
  
She hated this world. So. Bloody. Much.  
  
It could have been hours or minutes, Buffy didn't know. She simply closed her eyes, kept her stake ready in her hand, and waited for the twisting feeling in her gut to spike or fade. It loosened eventually and she watched for a break in foot traffic before crawling out from beneath the vehicle. She blinked and gave a relieved smile. It was a cop car. The windows were rolled up and the doors locked but she could make out papers spread across the dash. They put her in the mind of those Wanted Posters they always have on the sheriff's office in those old wild-west movies. Buffy squinted and her slayer enhanced eyesight managed to make out what resembled a mugshot of inmate Oz. Another paper had an image of her, pissed, and kicking down a door. It wasn't a very flattering picture and she could swear it made her look twenty pounds heavier.  
  
She was cute, dammit! Not chubby. Stupid CCTV cameras.  
  
Buffy moved around to the other window and tilted her head, trying to read the tiny print that came with the pictures without just breaking the window and grabbing them. As her Watcher would have said, there is a time and place for vandalism, but this is not it. She did wonder just what a poi was and why she was considered one.  
  
Maybe some kind of fish?  
  
Wait, they thought she was a fish? Just what kind of world had they landed in?!


	15. Hide and Seek

Tracking one scent through the throngs of humanity is not easy. In a city with a major tourist attraction during the height of the summer season it's damn near impossible. With the many scents of individual people mingling among the constant stream of exhaust, food, and various other signs of modern civilization, far easier would it be to stand on one street corner and hope the prey passes by. This fact had become painfully apparent the night before with two of the largest shifter communities out in force and still unable to follow their quarry's trail.  
  
But Zane was good at finding things, at tracking, and he wasn't going to give up that easily. The image of Cherry prowling around their tiny apartment, wearing nothing but a long Tee, had been burned into his mind. Cherry was counting on him, and for once his blonde baby-doll had taken a decidedly _alpha_ stance on a subject - not that he blamed her.It was odd and yet at the same time kinda sexy.  
  
Zane padded silently down the broken roads, eyes gleaming in the early morning haze, and tried to think. If he were a kid on the run, where would he go? It wasn't too hard of a question to answer because not long ago, a handful of years really, he _had_ been a kid on the run.  
  
Running from drunken parents and an unwanted responsibility. Running from drugs and the horrors of the world. Running from failure. Running to, he had hoped, something better.  
  
Things hadn't quite worked out how he had hoped. He had, in a hallucinogenic induced haze, seemed like the Messenger. You want to be clean? Strong? It will only hurt for a moment, and it's not like you've suffered worse, Right? But even if the devil you make your deal with is in the disguise of an angel, it is still a devil, and you are still damned.  
  
Weeds fought for air between hairline cracks in the pavement like desperate green fingers as Zane continued along roads he knew by heart. It wasn't that far from the Tenderloin. Matter-of-fact, it wasn't that far from the Richie Riches of Uptown which probably helped out all the guys that needed a quick fix. Just going out for milk, darling. Be back in half an hour or so. Not to worry.  
  
Zane rolled his neck and caught a familiar scent. It was so heavy he would have recognized it even if he weren't a wereleopard. "Heeey, Zeee-maaaan." A low pitched voice dragged out the vowels in a sleepy slur. Zane knew he was smiling as he glanced up at a fire escape and its occupant.  
  
"'Morning, Jim."  
  
The other man was wearing a heavy hoodie against the morning light, drawn up to shield his eyes, but Zane could still see the one pupil that had become permanently dilated. Legs clad in ragged jeans dangled over the edge twitching in time to the faint rock music drifting through the open window. "It's James, now. James. More respectable, proper, you know?" The man, James, smiled as he said it. "Haven't seen you in... in... ages. Where you been?"  
  
Zane shrugged and the paper bag he was carrying crinkled as it bounced against his leg. "Oh, here and there."  
  
"To the moon and back?"  
  
Zane smiled, fangs flashing, and James rocked back with wide eyes. But he didn't smell like fear; the man was never afraid. Chemicals could do that, sometimes.

"Something like that." Zane flexed his calves and jumped for the bottom rung of the fire escape before scrambling up the ladder. Jim watched him with interested eyes and managed to scoot aside to give the bigger man room. "I got a question for ya."  
  
"Shoot, Z-man." James called as he pawed through Zane's paper bag and began stuffing three-day-old McDonalds' apple pies into his mouth. The sounds of contentment that made it past masticated fruit and spice were nearly indecent.  
  
"You seen any kids around here. Four of 'um?"  
  
"Seen kids all over, dude. Gotta be more specific than that."  
  
Zane glanced into the shoebox apartment through the window. Mary-Sue was curled up asleep on the couch with a thick quilt and a roach dangling from her fingers. He could hear other people breathing softly, but he didn't know them. People were always coming and going.  Nothing changes.  Not in a day.  Not in a decade. "Two girls, one blonde and one ginger. Two boys, one dark hair and one looks like he just got out of the barbers and all really young."  
  
"They the sneaking about type or the come hither type?"  
  
Zane felt something inside him twist dangerously. Once he had been the come hither type, but it that had been a choice of necessity, and it was one he regretted every damn day. Anita and Richard, especially Richard, could think ideal thoughts and pretend you could leave behind all the bad shit, make the choice to be better, but experience had taught Zane different.  
  
_Fuck._ He remembered Anita Blake from before she had ever shot him in that hospital, but she didn't remember him. He'd been small then, only just gotten a handle on the beast, and she'd been looking for some cripple, but of course the Executioner didn't need to remember another faceless, pitiful, John.  
  
Zane fought down the bad feelings. The Pard needed a Nimir-Ra, and if she was willing to fill the position however grudgingly he would swallow his pride, such as it was, and be what he needed to be for her. He had tried to lead before, but he was an inexperienced high school drop-out that didn't know the first thing about succeeding in the game of life. Drop him in the middle of a jungle, he'd kick ass, but this? With people?  
  
"Sneaking about type." Zane answered firmly while declining the pill bottle James rattled invitingly. The man hummed tunelessly and slipped the Uppers back in his pocket before staring off into space. Zane hoped he wasn't in the midst of a flashback.  
  
"I think I remember them. Little ninja guys. Yeah. Didn't see no girls, just the boys slipping from shadow to shadow and off to the Tinker's."  
  
"Tinker's?" Zane asked, voice shaking. At James' unusually somber nod the leopard sighed and jumped back down to street level. He knew the place the old man had been talking about. He didn't want to go back there.  He would anyway.  Because that was where kids on the run ran to.   
  
It didn't take long to reach the building that haunted his nightmares, and with every step his nerves jangled in protest. The front looked exactly the same as he remembered it: a broken window with peeling paint proclaiming Janis' and Co. Repairs, and the locked door opened with a practiced jiggle. How many times had he and his fellow addicts snuck into the building and hidden out? Smoked? Drank? Shot up and scarred their arms with track lines until his lycanthropy erased all signs of what he had done to himself?  
  
Zane could swear his hands shaking as he passed the counter into the backroom. It was a mess, but fresh scents had layered over the old familiar ones: Blood and ash. Something cold, fresh, but also warm. Spring rain and fresh fruit. Zane had yet to actually meet the appropriately named scoobies, but he was willing to bet these scents were theirs.  
  
He would not forget.  
  
Like he couldn't forget Kim dying upstairs, eyes blown wide as she screamed at visions only she could see while her heart tried to explode out of her chest. All it takes is one bad batch to ruin your day. Your life.  
  
Zane fought down a hysterical laugh as he fumbled for his phone. He stared at the place she had died as the speed dial went through the numbers. The cold spot was gone. He wondered what that meant, and why the smell of strawberries and mangoes filled his nose. There was a click as someone picked up on the other end of the phone line. "You've reached the Lunatic Cafe, pick-up or delivery?"  
  
What the hell was he supposed to tell them? Sorry guys, but we just missed them. "Delivery. 5423 Mockingbird Ln."  
  


* * *

  
The window was cool against her cheek, soothing, even if it did rattle with every bump in the road. Buffy dozed lightly with the low murmur of the passengers for a lullaby. There was a stake up her sleeve, a line of reassuring pressure along her forearm, and though it wasn't the traditional weapon for humans very few things could survive with a thick piece of wood spearing their heart. Even most demons would go down once you took out their blood pumping organ, providing you could find it and they didn't have a back-up.  
  
Buffy shifted and pulled her jacket tighter around her body. A baby giggled in the background, distant, but the sound jarred with the images floating up from her dream scape. Background worries blended with daily troubles. She saw a mirror, shattered glass, and a thousand young girls staring back out at her. Reaching. Mouths open and screaming in fear, anger, triumph, and a hundred other emotions.  
  
She stood in the center of cave like chamber, chained to an eerily familiar chair, with her mother by her side holding a needle. For her own good, so she claimed, to keep her safe. Something skittered just out of sight as thick and viscous fear welled up in Buffy's mouth.  
  
Shadows reflected off the cave wall as though dancing to an unheard beat. Outside, in the real world, the bus followed a back road and sunlight broke through stands of trees to warm her closed eyelids.  
  
Dana.  
  
Who was Dana? Why was she hurting? Why was she in the hospital tied up? Why had Buffy dreamed of her?  
  
The blonde smiled sadly at the hazy image of her mother. Light brown hair framed Joyce's face as she smiled back, nothing but love shining out of those ancient and knowing eyes, and Buffy walked out of the chains to hug her mother. It was only a dream, but she could still smell the White Shoulders. "I love you, Buffy. You know that, right?"  
  
She wasn't holding a needle anymore. Buffy had control of the dream. It was just a dream, nothing more, not a nightmare and not a cryptic prophecy. She swept aside the broken mirror shards and tucked them away in a corner. Out of sight. Out of mind. "I know, Mom. I love you too." The cave shuddered around them as the bus rumbled to a stop.  
  
Buffy blinked her eyes open and rubbed the sleep from them with a yawn. The scent of her mother's perfume still floated on the air, and for a split second she thought by some miracle of contrivance her mother had managed to find her. The slayer tried not to be too disappointed when she realized it was only the lady with the cubic zirconium earrings three seats forward.  
  
"Xander?" Buffy asked as she wiped the condensation from the window and peered out. "I thought you said we were going to Mexico."  
  
"We are. This is. I think. Assuming our driver knows what he's doing, is legit, and not some madman out to hijack a bus filled with weary travelers." Xander replied airily. Buffy assumed he was sitting on his knees as his chin was propped on the back of his chair atop his arms. His hair had grown out a bit and with that oh-so-Xander grin on his face he rather resembled a puppy that had just gotten a pat on the head.  
  
She was tempted to reach up and do just that. "I dunno. When I think Mexico, I think sombreros. I see a distinct lack of sombreros." So saying Buffy looked around the Greyhound with a dramatic gesture and then out the windows. Nothing but a bus transit station, some bathrooms, the road, and a whole forest of trees. She was fairly certain there was supposed to be sand. Or maybe a mariachi band. Hank never did get around to taking her on that vacation so she couldn't be sure...  
  
"Well, I wanted to go there." The smile on his face melted into annoyance. "Because, you know, all the cool renegades make for the border, but we didn't have enough money and there were too many transfers. Didn't think we wanted to leave a paper trail that obvious. So, here we are. Mexico, Missouri."  
  
"I like it." Oz rumbled from his seat. He uncurled from his slump in one smooth motion and rubbed at the back of his neck to tease out the kinks. His eyes were that clear blue flecked brown Buffy remembered from the first time she met him, but despite the laid-back attitude every movement had a feral quality to it. Subtle, but there, and yet so Oz. "Very Thelma-and-Louise, except for the Great Plunge at the end."  
  
Buffy could here Willow make an unhappy sound in her throat. She had claimed an entire bench when earlier when they had boarded the bus, pushed up armrests and spread out, and was now trying to disentangle herself from the nest of light jackets and overstuffed stuffed backpacks. "Avoiding that would be of the good."  
  
"It would be redundant at this point." Xander stepped up onto his chair, braced one foot against an armrest, and reached overhead for his weapons pack. The bus was quickly emptying of everyone and they needed to be sure to go with the flow and not attract attention. Anonymity was the goal now. "I mean, we already drove off into a river. Granted it wasn't a thousand foot drop, but still."  
  
Buffy didn't bother fighting her smile as she headed down the middle isle and to the exit. The bus driver was already gone and the keys with him. Well, she hadn't really expected that idea to go anywhere, anyway. "Heaven forbid we start becoming predictable."  
  
She turned at the sound of gravel crunching as another bus rolled up to the station. The yellow electric light gave a buzz as the doors lurched open. Buffy pulled her tickets from her pocket and turned to stare at Xander. "Harrisonville, Missouri? Seriously?"  
  
"It was either that or Willow Springs."  
  


* * *

  
He hadn't been to the old farmhouse in years. It was a one story and somewhat run down from neglect but still serviceable with running water and electricity. A couple of weekends of work and it would be perfectly habitable and up to code. Rafael walked the grounds, his bodyguards maintaining a discreet distance, and drifted down memory lane. It was a rather melancholy trip.  
  
His wife, and even if the papers said they weren't together he couldn't imagine himself with anyone else, had loved the little plot of land. The perfect place for their child to grow up and there was even a small stable for horses! Wouldn't that be lovely, Raph?  
  
She had always loved nature. But not, as it turned out, enough. In theory she was fine with his condition, but after his niño was born and she'd seen his transformation take place... hesitation gave birth to fear and then...  
  
Why hadn't he sold the house, again? Rafael stuffed his hands in his pockets and mounted the steps with an assurance that gave nothing of his inner turmoil away. The stairs were in better condition than he expected and a few pieces of furniture littered the house under dust covered sheets like oddly shaped ghosts. One window had been left open and the wall would need to be taken out and replaced to get rid of the mold and rot. A couple of fresh coats of paint would work wonders. Not bad, all things considered.  
  
A fixer-upper, but she had liked that about it. A project of sorts.  
  
He made it back to the den and sat unceremoniously on a sheet covered love seat. He couldn't remember what its pattern was but there was a good chance the whole thing would be scrapped or sent to the Rodere half-way house on Fifteenth and Huckleberry. A tiny, warm presence flickered on the edge of his awareness and the Rat King smiled softly as tiny claws touched his pants and scrambled into his lap. Small, shining eyes peered up at him and thin whiskers tickled his fingers as he stroked the small furry head.  
  
Simple happiness. It flowed out from the small barn rat and wrapped around him communicating pure pleasure at being around the Rom. Rafael did not have the sheer raw power that the Ulfric held, but he rarely needed it. No, the Rom ruled with skill and had intimate knowledge of himself and his charges, his people. Knowing when and how to use power was just, if not more so, important as having it.  
  
Rafael connected with that bit of Rat within him and brushed it against the small creature in his lap. They had no language, not as such, but words were not always necessary. Images, smells, and ideas, bounced around the kings mind as they were filtered from the animal in his lap.  
  
He didn't think the other shifter groups, or the alphas at any rate, knew they could connect with their animal cousins in such a way. Or even if they could. Then again it wasn't like Richard kept wolves on hand -Jean-Claude had some, but they were only brought out for special occasions and the Ulfric ignored those events as much as possible- and it would be a bit hard to conceal a large predatory cat or any similar beast. The swanemanes may keep one or two of their cousins around as pets or decoration, but why would they want to speak with them?  
  
Rats, however, were everywhere. They got into everything with an insatiable curiosity, and were constantly overlooked. The rat gave a little half purr, half chirp, and scampered away down the couch leg after the completion of its mission. Granted, messages received second or twelfth hand from the original tended to get garbled like the worst game of telephone, but the overall impression had been clear.  
  
"West." Rafael crossed his arms and stared at the empty mantle. It was made of a dull hardwood that could be polished to a shine. God, he wanted his son. Ever since holding the infant there was a dark gaping hole inside that simply could not be filled or ignored no matter how much he threw himself into his work.  
  
Rafael leaned his head back against the couch uncaring of the dirt that was probably grinding into his clothing and hair. It was warm in the house, but not uncomfortably so, and he had left the front door open to admit a light breeze.  
  
Well, the past was the past. It was time to make some new, better, memories.  
  
The Rom stood, brushed off what dust he could, and locked the door behind him. Bobby-Lee melted around from the side of the house, eyes unreadable, and together they headed for the car. Someone was going to need to mow the lawn.  
  


* * *

  
The public library in Harrisonville was boring. Xander drifted along the stacks of the Self Help section, occasionally browsing through books with titles such as 'How to Build a Log Cabin', and 'Your Daughter Has Become a Blood Sucking Fiend?' Sure, the titles were promising, but most of the supernatural oriented stuff looked like it had been written by someone with delusions of vampire puppies or something. They were all recently published and still had that new paper smell that made the Scooby feel nostalgic for a good comics shop.  
  
He was willing to bet all the really good stuff was behind lock-and-key in some fancy book cage with magical wards.  
  
Nah, that would be giving the library too much credit. They probably didn't have anything interesting at all. The place was a complete and total square that was making him channel his ex. He could easily see her waltzing down the isles, heels sticking into the boring beige carpet with little thunks, and running her finger over the shelves while demanding someone hire a cleaning service. Xander never thought he would miss the circular deathtrap that was the Sunnydale High Library as much as he did. At least it, like most of the school, had interesting architecture.  
  
With a sigh and a quick dodge of the librarian, some graying lady in a pink cardigan, he wandered back to the dark corner that the scoobs had appropriated for themselves. There had been a bit of trouble getting the computer terminal, it was ancient and Xander worried that the burning smell coming from the boxy part was not a good thing, but Oz was a man of few words and many talents.  
  
A little rough-housing by the entrance of the library, a quick apology to the poor student with the paper due on Thursday, and why yes Miss Bibliophile I do have a card! Yes, you may hold it as we use your Internet. Of course my name is Aleesha Stevinson, do I not look like an Aleesha to you?  
  
She looked like a Willow, but the Desk Lady was too distracted by a woman and her tantruming four-year-old to notice.  
  
"Are you in yet?" Buffy was asking Willow as she impatiently spun around in the rolling chair she'd conned out of one of the workers It wasn't like he had been using it, anyway. The blonde had not been happy when she finally got back to their hideout and demanded answers. She knew, of course, that they had done a very frowned upon thing. Yet why the cops in Missouri, when the hit had gone down in Illinois, had her picture was both confusing and problematic.  
  
It might have had something to do with laws and borders and a whole host of other things, but none of the Scoobies understood it. They majored in monster ass-kicking, not legal paper-pushing.  
  
"Almost." Willow answered as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Her green eyes looked pale and washed out but strangely intense in the glow of the computer screen. "It's all about the back-door entrances, as we don't want to be detected and even if we did I've got us going through about a dozen proxy servers which wasn't easy mind you as most of the ones I'm used to using I couldn't find and I really don't trust these guys because-"  
  
"Willow." Buffy spoke in calm tones with her hand resting lightly on Willow's shoulder. "Breathe."  
  
Willow took a deep breath. She exhaled, bangs flying up and away from her face, before squaring her shoulders and going back to work. Xander didn't know why she was so nervous: she'd broken into plenty of government databases. Why would this be any different?  
  
"Got it."  
  
All hail the information age and its queen, Willow the Red Witch.  
  
Xander peeked over the girl's shoulder and nearly whistled, it was a library after all, in appreciation. Police reports, crime scene photos, and various other files whipped across the screen as their friend searched for the fish file, or so Buffy had claimed. Xander really didn't think the police thought they were fish, that was just beyond the normal levels of strangeness. Still, as he snagged flashes of torn up bodies and eye-witness reports of extreme badness he couldn't help but marvel.  
  
Competent cops? Suffer'n Sucatash!  
  
Willow had just pulled up a file that looked promising, it had more flags than an color guard tournament, but before she could go into it the soft shuffling of a cart being pushed was heard. Their witch gave a little start and hit a series of keys to minimize the Police Database while brightly colored cartoon horses filled the screen. After the volunteer, she had a name badge, with her burden of books safely passed Xander glanced at his best friend as his manliness took a nosedive. "My Little Pony. Really? We're ten, not two."  
  
Willow huffed and pulled the window filled with pictures of body parts back up. "I was under pressure! Besides, it was the only address I could remember, and she probably won't be coming back here again, anyway. No one suspects the dancing ponies."  
  
"Guys! Focus, please! If I'm going to jail I want to know why." Buffy insisted as she tilted her head and squinted at the photographs on display. "Fifty bucks says a sword ripped off the faces."  
  
Xander rolled his eyes and dragged over a stepstool from the shelves to sit on. "Please, that's not a bet. It's too obvious."  
  
Willow continued to ignore them as she searched for more recent files. Maybe it was a little callous of them to talk about deaths in the same tone they would use to discuss the weather, but it was hard not to. Half the time on patrols they stumbled right over bodies in worse shape, often literally, and seeing a one with the nice sterilization of a glass screen between them and it made the whole thing rather tame in comparison. Willow felt the wrinkle form on her brow as she noticed an irregularity.  
  
"What's that?" Xander asked by her side and so close his hair was tickling her ear.  
  
"I dunno..." She typed in a set of commands to pull up the code and began running a quick check. Everything should have been set up to account for new information coming in as well as alert her to any changes in the security programs. She was like the ghost in the machine, undetectable and unseen. "Ah, Snickerdoodles!"  
  
Buffy and Xander jumped back as she began frantically pounding at the keys, tiny fingers flashing, and the images on the screen backtracked. "What's going on! You had the file, I saw it!"  
  
"Someone else was in there! I was doing my thing, they were doing theirs, and our things crossed and set off a whole slew of alarms!" Willow hissed as she wiped the computer memory, which was going to make for a cranky repairman come morning, and shut it off. "I don't know if they managed to track us, they shouldn't have been able to, not enough time, but just in case..."  
  
"Got it." Buffy nodded and dumped a few random books they had picked up onto a re-shelving cart and headed up the stairs to the first floor and the door. They didn't bother reporting to the lady in charge of the computers, it wasn't like it was their library card anyway.  
  
Xander slipped a peppermint in his mouth as he walked through the detector thingy. Who wanted to steal books anyway? "Guys, I got a question." They met Oz outside where he had been strumming his guitar. The guy liked his music and, incidentally, had several women cooing over him and dumping change into the instrument case. Sweet. "Who would want to break into a police database?" At the blank stares he clarified. "I mean, besides us."  
  
Cue awkward silence.


	16. After Midnight

The moon hovered in the sky like a big, lopsided, glowing bouncy ball. It was still in its waning cycle, plenty of time before Oz became one with his wild side, yet managed to give off enough light for Willow to make out the copse of trees at her back and the small duck pond in the distance. If she squinted she could see the ducks themselves, or they could possibly be just a few logs bobbing along, Willow wasn't really sure and didn't want to move from her comfortable spot by the fire to find out.   
  
Oz was curled up at her side, back pressing into her leg, and letting out little breathy noises as his hands twitched in sleep. Willow smiled and ran her fingers through his baby soft hair. He reminded her of Jesse's old dog, before he mysteriously went missing all those years ago, when the retriever would dream of chasing something. Rabbits, or so Mr. McNally had said. Wolf Oz always got excited when Willow read him the rabbit bits in Call of the Wild.  
  
Humming contentedly to herself, Willow stirred the embers and watched as the sparks took to the night sky like little lightening bugs. The fire wasn't necessary, but it was a comfort, and Xander had dug a small pit to keep the glow of the flames from being too terribly obvious in the dark. The witch _did_ wish they had remembered to pick up some marshmallows. Maybe Buffy would bring some with her when she got back from patrol?  
  
That worried her a tiny bit; Buffy's insistence on patrolling alone so she could 'get the feel' of the land. If it was Sunnydale Willow wouldn't be so upset, Buffy was the Vampire Slayer after all, but they weren't in Sunnydale.  
  
Maybe she was over thinking things again.  
  
The glowing gold wood pulsed with a dry heat and it was something of a blessing in the humid summer air. She set her thoroughly blackened poking stick to the side and held out her hands over the embers, examining them as a cricket chirped off to the side. Something shifted in the old dead fall and her head whipped around, loose strands of hair stinging her cheek, but no matter how much she strained her eyes she could see nothing that resembled a hulking abomination out to eat her organs. Probably just a squirrel, field mouse, or even a -narrowed eyes darted in suspicion to the duck pond- frog. Aside from a truly insane number and variety of lycan- _therianthropes_ , outed vampires, and the occasional persons of fey heritage the Scoobies hadn't met, seen, or heard of anything like the demons back home.   
  
Even if lack of demons was a good thing it made her uneasy. Having one's worldview turned inside out and upside down was never fun and Willow's mind had been worrying at plot holes and history gaps like a dog with a bone. Giles' Lore books claimed demons broke through dimensional barriers into the human realm, but this was very much a human realm -or was that alternate time line?- and she hadn't seen any sign of them. Things were not adding up in any way she would have liked, her magic was doing weird things, and her desire to know the whys and hows was an unquenchable thirst.   
  
If the last of the True Demons had been driven off by the Slayer in their home world, and that was a story with so many holes Willow privately thought the Council was just making itself look good, then had something similar occurred here? Could there have been something so terrible and frightening that it killed all the demons that opposed it, but if so, where did it go? What did it do after? The questions bit at her brain like a nest of ants; small but irritating and deadly in large numbers.  
  
Alternatively, had the other realms simply never discovered this dimension? Were there no demons here because they just didn't know it existed? Could Willow and the rest of the scoobies be interdimensional Columbus'? If so, then where did the vampires of this world come from? It was a pity there was no Magician Humfrey with a Book of Answers they could seek out in this strange land that was so similar but so different from their own. She had checked. With her friends by her side they could have totally taken any obstacles he put up!  
  
Yawning, the witch stretched her legs out and reached for the sky. Her shoulders gave little pops as she rotated her wrists before rolling onto her back snuggling into her sleeping boyfriend. Willow tilted her head and stared up at the sky. The stars looked the same. She wasn't an astronomy buff but she could pick out the Big Dipper, Little Dipper, and even the North Star and Orion's Belt.   
  
"The more things change, the more they stay the same." She whispered as her eyes tried to guess at the rest of the constellations. Oz's heartbeat pulsed in her ear, slow in sleep, like the steady rhythm of a drum. So lost was she in watching the sky and puzzling out all the weirdness she didn't notice the body coming up on her until it _fulumped_ down on her other side.   
  
"Get some sleep, I'll take watch." Xander spoke in a whisper and Willow released Oz so she could roll over and glare at her oldest friend.   
  
"I still have another hour. Besides, you're the only one that didn't get a nap on the bus."  
  
Xander shrugged and poked her in the arm. "Like I didn't just see you and Oz getting your cuddle on," He screwed up his face in disgust and stuck his tongue out at her. "I couldn't sleep, anyway. This way at least my insomnia can serve some higher purpose."  
  
Willow frowned and placed one of her small hands over Xander's. It was surprisingly cold and clammy in the warm air. Concern shone out of her eyes and Xander ignored it, staring pointedly into the fire.   
  
"Nightmares, again?" Xander had been having them off and on for a while, ever since he could remember, but it wasn't until Graduation that they came on so strong and frequent. Buffy had them, too, but hers were far more quiet, or at least they had been. Thinking of her gal-pal screaming in her sleep the night previous sent guilty chills down the red head's spine.  
  
She needed to make them some new Dreamless Sleep charms, stat. Which meant she needed to sneak into a graveyard and get dirt, among other things.   
  
"It's not so bad." The brunette shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Sleep is for the weak, meditation is where it's at." So saying Xander gave a knowing nod and settled into a lotus position. Willow snorted and pillowed her head in her hands. She continued to watch the sky, noticing Xander tilt his head up to look with her, and smiled. "It's nice."  
  
"Yeah." With her oldest friend on one side, her boyfriend on the other, knowing the Slayer was out slaying, and the seductively familiar night sky above them, it _was_ nice. She felt warm, and safe, and a hundred other good things. For the first time in what seemed like forever she felt like they might just have a chance. They would figure things out. They were scoobies. It was what they did. "It is nice."  
  


* * *

  
Bert had, grudgingly, admitted over the few years Anita had been working for him that with an ongoing police investigation his star animator's time was no longer his. After all, he had been the one to offer her services to RPIT in exchange for monetary gain and good press. Anita stared at herself in the mirror and partly wished Bert wasn't a business guru. With the Saint Peter's mess still going strong he had assumed she would be getting calls at the most inopportune times to check crime scenes, and she had, but this meant he had rescheduled or farmed out over half her raisings to the others at Animator's Inc. Simply put, she had no excuse to not go to the meeting Jean-Claude had arranged for her.  
  
She really, really wished she did.   
  
No matter how many times Jean-Claude managed to talk her into the dominatrix gear she still wasn't used to it. The whole getup made her feel like a little girl playing a really strange game of pretend, but it didn't matter how she felt. What mattered was the impression it made on other people and as long as she kept her anger close, a shield and mask, no one would guess how awkward she felt. At least it didn't take two people to help her dress anymore.   
  
Anita let out a hiss of frustration as she tried to figure out which of the leather strips her arm was supposed to go through. There was a soft knock at her bedroom door and she grunted in acknowledgment. She could see Nathaniel's face reflected in the mirror, pale lavender eyes ghosting away from her own dark brown ones, and he stepped closer while holding out his hands in askance. Anita relented with a sigh. His fingers were surprisingly soft and his movements light and quick, like vanilla scented butterflies, so it didn't take long for him to maneuver the ridiculous top into place. At least her pants were reasonable even if they did make her think of herself as a female Jean-Claude: Tight black velvet pants with leather heeled boots that came up to her thighs.  
  
If it wasn't for the material, or lack thereof, on the shirt portion of the outfit Anita would have been worried about over heating.   
  
"Great." Anita tried to vainly pull down on the crisscrossing strips covering her breasts. "Now can you show me where my holster fits into this thing?"  
  
Nathaniel practically squirmed under the question. He was looking down and away, something that annoyed her in an abstract way, and his bare feet were needing the carpet nervously. "There isn't one." His voice was low and he risked a glance at her. "Narcissus in Chains is neutral territory."  
  
"Bullshit." There was no way she was going into a known lycanthrope hang out unarmed. "I don't care if they are the Switzerland of the Shifter Community. I am not going without my guns." The Swiss may be neutral, but what they didn't tell you in school was that those citizens were all required to take part in the military.   
  
"So you want the Pard to declare war on another clan, stronger than us mind you, just because you can't bear to leave your security blanket at home?" A husky voice laden with mockery called. Anita forced herself to relax as she turned to face the most trying and alpha of her leopards with a blank face. "My, my. What a grand Nimir-Ra you are. All hail."  
  
"Elizabeth." Anita greeted coldly. She did not have the patience to deal with the woman tonight. "What do you want?"  
  
The dark haired woman shrugged seductively. "World peace?" She didn't even flinch at the glare Anita sent her way. Her eyes went green, the green of her cat form, and stared Nathaniel down. The boy seemed to curl in on himself and sink behind Anita as the Executioner picked up her Browning from where it had been sitting on the bureau. Something flickered in those animal eyes as the other woman tracked the gun, but Anita couldn't tell what it was. Elizabeth quickly recovered and gave an indulgent smile. "What I want, is for you to grow a brain, but we can't all have what we want. Pity."  
  
Anita's hands flexed on the handle of her gun. It was tempting to shoot the smile off the woman, but they were just words, and what kind of example was she setting if she struck out every time the Pard did something she didn't like? Nathaniel was like a wall of soothing, hot energy at her back. She was supposed to be Nimir-Ra, leoparde lionne, not Nimir-Ra, Bitchy Dictator. She was trying to get them to function on their own. To stand on their own.  To be human. Smacking Elizabeth around, as much as she sometimes deserved it, was not conductive to that goal. Such a shame.  
  
"Talk, or get out." Anita set her terms though the intimidation factor was a bit lowered by the penguin figurines littering the desk behind her.  
  
Elizabeth ran a hand through her dark hair, almost as dark as Anita's, and twirled a lock around her fingers. "You're going to talk to Narcissus, I happen to like her, and I don't want you to mess this up." With that statement Anita took in just what the leopardess was wearing. Short, skimpy black dress with a plunging neckline that a centimeter in any other direction would have been indecent exposure and a chain like belt with a silver sheen. Five inch heels on her already tall form was just adding insult to injury as she towered over the Necromancer.  
  
"You know Narcissus?" She shouldn't have been surprised, but she was. Sometimes she forgot Elizabeth had been Gabriel's mate and he would certainly have been the kind of man to frequent the kind of club Richard had said it was.   
  
Elizabeth nodded with a wistful smile. Anita could see the yellow headlights of an approaching vehicle through the window and debated what she was going to do. Guns or no guns? At least she had sheathes for her knives worked into the boots. Perhaps a compromise? Anita went to her bed and slipped the Browning into its second home by the headboard for safekeeping. The doorbell rang as she fit the Inner Pant's Holster to the small of her back. It felt a little loose, the pants were clearly not made for it, but serviceable and her drawing arm was free. Nathaniel handed her the leather knee-length coat that had been draped over the chair with a shaky smile. "If I need a guide, why can't Nathaniel do it?"  
  
The other wereleopard just stared at her, eyes wide as they walked out the door to meet the guests, before smiling broadly and laughing. "Nathaniel? You can't really think you can take someone as submissive as him to Narcissus! Not even," her eyes clouded over for a moment. "Gabriel would have done that. Whether either of us like it or not," Anita could practically see the fur rise in agitation, and she couldn't help but think even if the Hyena's didn't offer any threats she wanted her gun on her as long as Elizabeth was around. "If you don't want Narcissus to take offense and shut you down before any information is exchanged, you need me."  
  
They came to the living room and Anita stopped, reaching out to grab Elizabeth's arm, and whirled the other woman to face her. Lips peeled back from suddenly sharp teeth and the leopard twitched her fingers as if fighting the urge to shift then and there. The Firestar was all but pressed into the weak spot between Elizabeth's eyes. The woman's nostrils flared and Anita knew she could smell the silver. Those green, green eyes swam with something that turned Anita's stomach and almost caused her to release her grip. "Tell me why you care, and don't pussy foot around." Nathaniel had frozen in the hallway and she could feel his eyes focused on the tableau like lasers.  
  
Elizabeth tilted her head, causing the barrel of the gun to press into her skin. "For all your skill and dominance, you understand nothing, Nimir-Ra. How can you know so much, yet understand so little?" Her eyelids fluttered, dark make-up accentuating those emerald eyes, and she smiled as though amused. "Do you know what it is like to be hungry? Cold? To have the whole, entire, world against you? Have you ever felt a despair so deep that it makes every movement ache until the only thing that could possibly end it is a bullet to the brain?  
  
"I have. That is why I care. That is why, though seeing you fumble around like the incompetent pretender you are would be incredibly satisfying, I am here."  
  
Anita let the woman go and holstered her gun. "I never took you for the motherly type."  
  
The woman snorted and turned back to the door while tugging her fingerless gloves back into place. She tilted her head and Anita scowled as Nathaniel rushed forward to open the door with his eyes downcast in submission. Elizabeth fluffed her hair as she went out to the black limousine, pausing only to bob her head at the men waiting, walking as though she owned the world. With everything that had been going on it was surprising how much the little power play irked Anita. This was the twenty-first century, the big bad alpha could open her own damn doors.

"You've got to learn to stand up to her." Anita bit out as she glanced at the auburn haired shifter. Nathaniel fidgeted where he stood but didn't say anything.   
  
"Anita." Rafael's voice was a much needed distraction. It was rich, vibrant, and yet managed to give no sign of the heritage his coloring proclaimed. "Shall we go?" Somehow he managed to include the question of Elizabeth's presence in the words. With a sigh, Anita nodded.  
  
Looking at the Rat King's attire, she took comfort in the fact she wasn't the only one playing dress up.  
  


* * *

  
Buffy was reprising her role as She-Who-Lurks-About-In-Cemeteries. Well, maybe not lurks. The slayer blew a minty-fresh bubble as she bobbed her head to the music in her mind. Lurks implied she was plotting some badness and that she didn't belong there, and despite the wrought iron fence that couldn't have kept anyone with a little determination out, she totally did! It wasn't as big as some she had patrolled in the past, and it lacked the variety of tombs, graves, and mausoleums that had become so familiar during three years of Sunnydale slayage, but it had that familiar quaint small town vibe going on that the blonde slayer appreciated. They wouldn't be staying long, just enough time to catch their breath and pick a new direction, but she was already developing a proprietary sense about the graveyard. She was the Slayer. It was Hers to patrol. Hers to guard. Death, her constant companion, but ever the gentleman.  
  
It felt good to be doing something normal, normal for her anyway, and though she had yet to run into anything bigger than a bunny rabbit in the land of the dead it wouldn't hurt to be cautious. Measure twice cut once and all that jazz. She had already done a quick circle of the park where her fellow scoobies had set up camp, nothing creepy there and Oz's super-sniffer didn't find anything unusual, so all that was left was the nearby bone yard. Which was practically deserted. Which was weird. She didn't even get a little blip of danger brewing below her feet and even the tamest burial grounds had echoes of what once fought its way back to the surface.   
  
Did vampires not get buried here? Buffy frowned at the thought. It would be a bitch to patrol morgues, she knew, as she had broken into more than one over her career.  
  
Buffy smacked her bubblegum and twirled her stake around her palm like a tiny baton as she wandered around getting the lay of the land. The grass was damp from a sprinkler system going off but her new expensive leather boots kept her feet nice and dry. If she wasn't so annoyed with the not-Angel she would have felt a little bad about busting up his place and breaking out. But she was, so she didn't give two shits about him. The whole Master-of-the-City thing had given her creepy flashbacks to The Master and set off all sorts of alarm bells. And the thralling thing Xander had to snap her out of? Serious bad wiggins over that. The bites at her neck gave little twinges of remembered pain... and pleasure. Best to stay far away from St. Louis and company, Buffy thought to herself with an affirming nod. She didn't like the idea of structure in vampire society, of personality in the individual blood suckers, for it gave rise to the possibility of organization.  Civilization.  
  
It was so much easier to stake the bastards when they were so obviously monsters what with warped demonic faces and mindless killing instincts. You didn't question if it was wrong, or against the law, it was proactive self-defense! End of story.  
  
They reminded her of Spike, and not in a good way. A world populated with Anne Rice vampires flying about being all mysterious and pretty-eyed and sexy voiced... Buffy shuddered in her coat and paused to distract herself by read a headstone. It was kinda old by a century or two. Looking around at other weathered angels and stone markers the slayer closed her eyes and released some of the strain that had been creeping up on her over the weeks. She slowly relaxed her stance and let her muscles uncoil as her senses stretched to their limits. Not far, but coming closer, was something. Something big: bigger than her at any rate. Several somethings. They moved through the wet grass smoothly and silently giving nothing away but the moving bubble of quiet that followed their passage was enough.  
  
As cliché as it was, there was something to be said for the phrase: quiet, too quiet. It had saved the slayer's butt more than once.   
  
Buffy slipped the stake up her sleeve, smiled cutely, and whirled around. She ground one booted heel into the squishy earth and looked up through lowered lashes at the creatures that had appeared. Nothing but a lost little girl, nothing to concern yourself with Mr. and Mrs. Paleness.   
  
Buffy leaned back and weighed her odds. The monsters looked like humans that had a little too much fun in the paint department at Lowes. Silver, almost metallic skin shone in the moonlight as tiny clicking noises issued from fang-filled mouths. There was a scrape of metal on stone and Buffy spared a glance behind her to see another of the creatures perch itself like a skeletal bird on a sculpture. Long black talons scored the unknown angel's throat and Buffy blew a raspberry at the demon. "Is that supposed to be intimidating?"  
  
At the blank stare from glowing red eyes Buffy sighed. After her mother, her watcher, and her bed, she missed pre-fight banter the most. Bad Guys here just did not know how to appreciate a good quip.  
  
The two other monsters shifted, circling like sharks, and Buffy let herself grin as her hand went to the holster hanging between her shoulder blades. As her grip closed around the slightly curved handle of a familiar knife Buffy's heart gave a little lurch. The last time she used the knife... no. Bitch deserved it, and they couldn't afford to waste weapons. The third mercury man, because Buffy had no clue what the demons were called, crawled off the statue like some kind of giant cat and joined the couple in their circling. Buffy drew the knife and held it in one hand, stake in the other, and was half-tempted to bounce on her toes and gesture invitingly. It was about time she got to blow off some steam and pound some demons.  
  
The monsters paused with blood red eyes, a nice change from the molten yellow of her usual opponent's, on her weapons. Buffy hummed and began backing slowly toward one of the trees. Three on one wasn't normally a problem for her, but her reach was somewhat decreased at the moment, and having something solid at her back would be ideal. The creatures... hesitated... and Buffy felt her brow furrow in confusion. Monsters didn't hesitate. They did or did not. No middle ground. "It's just little 'ole me, big boy."  
  
As the monster charged all Buffy could do was smirk; her heart speeding up as adrenaline kicked in.  
  


* * *

  
Entering Narcissus in Chains had been like walking into a wall of solid sound. It pounded into her body, tiny hammers of noise, and her lungs vibrated uncomfortably to the beat. Anita wondered how the shifters could stand it before she remembered just what kind of club it was. Maybe they liked having their eardrums burst a little at a time? Who knew?  
  
She wasn't sure which she preferred: stuck in a limo with Richard when their relationship was still all kinds of unsettled, or the flagrant degenerate parade of flesh that was the BDSM club. Decisions, decisions... Anita allowed herself a moment to muse who her first target would be should shit hit the fan. A supposed honor guard was by the door, a hyena dressed like someone straight out of the roman coliseum, with a visible short sword at his hip. She had to give the costume designer credit. Most people would assume the thing was just another prop, a little something to add ambiance, but she was willing to bet her own sharp, shiny knives the sword held a live edge.  
  
She studiously ignored the decorations hanging from the ceiling. Denial, at times, could be a wonderful thing. "So, where is this Hyena queen? I thought she called us?"  
  
"In some ways," Rafael responded easily where he leaned against a padded wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Anita couldn't help but envy the way he wore his outfit. It was almost as if his quiet dignity was a cloak deflecting any and all inappropriate thoughts that the outfit begged for. Though, admittedly, it was tame compared to most of what she had seen in the main room. "Narcissus is much like Jean-Claude. A love of showmanship being one of those."  
  
Which would explain the dress code that had them all wearing enough combined leather to raise a cow or two... now there was a thought. What would her dear stepmother have thought about her clothing coming alive instead of the combined population of I-44?  
  
Anita did not expect the door to open and admit the second of her lovers. By some miracle, or perhaps an exercise of vampire powers, the clothing he wore covered the majority of his scarring. Anita pursed her lips and pushed off the huge bed that took the place of a couch in the private room, and walked over to the vampire. "I thought Jean-Claude would be here."  
  
Asher smiled grimly and as Anita neared him she could feel the sparks of his anger gathered around him like a shield. "He would have if the negotiations had gone better. The... ingenuity... of the little children is trying on us all, and even the most patient have been short tempered."  
  
"So he yelled into the phone and got hung up on?" At Asher's Gallic shrug Anita wondered if it said anything about her relationships that she wished she had been in the room to see that. Hell, JC loosing control was so rare they could probably make it a circus attraction.   
  
She tried to ignore the clear amusement coming from her Ulfric, or the sneering of Elizabeth as the other woman lounged on the bed. She rolled in the sheets, breathing in the scent Anita had left behind, and licked at the satin in a way that had Anita seeing brown hair and gray eyes. Anita swallowed. "Elizabeth." Her voice was cold and hard, with just a touch of that dark thing inside that killed without thought. Without conscience or remorse.  
  
The other woman sighed and untangled herself, tucking softly curling hair behind her ear while settling neatly on the bed. The door opened again and this time it was someone Anita had never met who was flanked by yet more would be gladiators.

"Welcome," The -woman?- said with a roll of power as her entourage. It was a constant pulse, a living thing, and brought with it heat and darkness. Out of the corners of her eyes Anita could see Rafael and Richard shift in their postures. The Rom, grudging respect. The Ulfric, polite attention. "To my little kingdom. I understand the Master of the City has misplaced our little criminals?" She, though Anita was strongly leaning toward he, raised a lace gloved hand to forestall comment. "I think, first, we should finish that which was sadly postponed."  
  
Anita did not approve of the way Narcissus' eyes lingered on Asher and thanked God Nathaniel had helped her pick out a scentless oil for her guns. Her hands itched for her Firestar. Not to shoot, honestly, but the Hyena leader set her teeth on edge. Elizabeth had been a little too accurate when she described the guns as security blankets. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Why, my gifts." Narcissus turned from the vampire to Anita, long black silk dress trailing on the ground as he moved toward her. "I had an agreement with the former Ulfric and Lupa, I waited for representatives to inform me of any change in this... for the gifts to come... but they did not. And our dear Ulfric has been avoiding me. But I have you both here now, and I think it only proper to get this out of the way, first."  
  
"Marcus and Raina gave you presents?" The idea was totally bizarre and Anita didn't get it. "Why?"  
  
"To keep the population down." Richard growled out. His hackles were up. The man had a thing about children, he adored them, and from what little she had heard from Jason and others the four refugees had wormed their way into the man's heart and set up shop without even trying. "Marcus didn't want to risk them gaining the numbers of the wolves and rats... so they're small. No more than fifty, right?"  
  
"Wrong." Ruby painted lips quirked into a smile. "You have not sent gifts, so I have been expanding."  
  
Richard narrowed his eyes. "There haven't been any Hyena attacks."  
  
"She has been recruiting from other clans." Rafael spoke with a shrug. Narcissus looked so smug, Anita had the sudden urge to shot him on principle. "The rats have never had any quarrel with the hyenas. You currently number in the hundreds, yes?"  
  
"Indeed. We may not be as strong as the wolves, yet, but you are here by my leave." The implied threat did not go unanswered. It came from what Anita thought would be the least likely source, but Asher stood in an invisible haze of his own power as a line of blood dripped down the Oba's chest. The look of surprise on that beautifully made-up face would have been comical if not for the sudden change to interest that replaced it as arousal filled the room. Narcissus touched a hand to the cut as he waved down the guards and licked the blood from his fingers. His eyes were all for Asher. "Oh, yes. I thought you might be interesting, Temoin."  
  
"Enough." Elizabeth spoke from the bed and Anita nearly jumped in surprise. She had practically forgotten the woman was with them. The leopard slunk from the bed, head bowed and hair falling to conceal her face, only to stop and kneel at the hyena alpha's feet. "Narcissus, I am a gift from the Blooddrinkers' Pard. Enjoy."  
  
Anita stared dumbfounded, caught out at the sudden and unexpected turn of events. Perhaps it had been a little naïve to think the Oba had been talking about money, or tangible objects, but people? "What?" She hissed while bringing her beast forward to assert dominance. Had this been Elizabeth's plan all along?  
  
"Hmmm." Narcissus touched Elizabeth's chin and tilted her face up. "It has been some time since we've been together, hasn't it? Not since Gabriel... well..."  
  
Rafael's expression was unreadable, but he was looking at Anita. The Nimir-Ra swallowed and opened her mouth to argue, as much as they disliked each other, and Anita couldn't really fault her as she doubted she could ever forgive someone if they killed Richard or Jean-Claude whatever the reason, Anita didn't give her people over to other Alphas. A wave of hostility and rage broiled over the Pard link, as tenuous as it was, and Anita found her mouth shutting of its own accord and her eyes widening as the leopard went sedately from the room following someone called Achilles.  
  
If you don't want Narcissus to shut you down, you need me.   
  
The words came back to her, loud, but without the mocking tone Elizabeth normally employed when speaking to Anita.  
  
"The children, Oba." Rafael's voice was hard. "You said you had information."  
  
Narcissus sighed and gestured toward the door. The cut on his chest was already closed.  That was worrisome. A second door opened from behind a gauze curtain to admit a long haired brunette. She was sporting a split lip and a light limp but her whole demeanor was antagonistic. "This is Andromeda." It was said with the tired disappointment often found in long-suffering parents.  
  
"Narcissus." The new woman spat in the same tone other people said cockroach. Anita liked her already.   
  
"Tell them about your little Oba."  
  
Andromeda glared. "Why? He does not wish to be found."  
  
In a blink Asher was there, before the woman, fingers twined in that mass of brown locks and wrenching her head back. His eyes glowed a glacial blue as he stared into hers. He was rolling her, and Anita almost warned him off. Her arm moved back, ready to grab the handle of her Firestar and she had shot others for less... but this was Asher. And they needed the information. Mother Mary, was everyone deciding to perform a personality flip tonight?  
  
It was like watching a Train Wreck in slow motion and she couldn't stop looking.  
  
"The boy. Where is he?"  
  
"I don't know." Andromeda spoke haltingly, like she was trying to fight the roll, but she really couldn't. Not only was he a Master Vampire, and older than Jean-Claude, but had recently gained an animal-to-call. Hyena. Was that why the normally neutral shifter clan was suddenly taking an interest in politics? "Could be anywhere. He bought so many tickets to throw off the scent... I wanted to go with him..."  
  
Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. Asher released her hair but his eyes still held her in thrall with his power as he continued the line of questioning. "Why?" She looked lost and confused.  
  
"Because... because he felt safe. He felt like a hyena... and an alpha... but..." She swallowed reflexively. "He wasn't dominate. How can you be Alpha but not dominate? When I was with him, I felt like I was in my mother's arms again. I felt like everything was going to be okay. Like... like..."  
  
She had the blank complacent look like most of those within a pleasant thrall, but a thin line of tears tracked silently down her cheeks. Asher stepped away, gaze distant, and Anita had no idea what to do.  
  
Why was it every time they learned something about the kids, it only brought up more questions?  
  


* * *

  
Aud Korsdaughter, though all the paperwork on her identity named her Anya Jenkins, sat at her coffee table sipping tea while reading through what passed for a grimoire in the current day-and-age. It was sadly lacking. Her legs were curled up on a soft and too large pillow. Her fingers spun a pen around as she thought about her business, and business was happily booming, while reading by the light of several scented candles. The whole atmosphere reminded her of less complicated times when strong, warm arms had wrapped protectively around her... minus the smell of sweat and dung of course. It was a nice thought, and the brief flare of pain didn't distract her nearly as much it would have otherwise.  
  
Looking at the poorly edited work of, Aud flipped back to the first page, A. Crowley she had to lament the state magic and its practitioners were in. Woe unto times past when mysticism had been accepted and so thoroughly entwined with the mortal world all you really needed for a spot of magic was to reach out with Will and maybe a Focus to perform what needed being done. Looking at the carefully constructed curses and incantations Aud wrinkled her nose and shut the book before sliding it to a far corner of the table.   
  
As it was the state of Magick, for someone who had lived in a time where myth and legend were interchangeable with tangible facts, was deplorable. "I blame the Government." Aud grumbled as she uncurled from her seated position to stretch. "Sneaky bastards always spreading lies and propaganda to 'tame the masses'." There had been more than one reason Anyanka was known for kick starting revolutions. Magic was supposed to be a neutral entity, a force of nature like rain or wind, but somewhere along the line it had been twisted by perception and that started an endless cycle of limitations. Demons, being demons and creatures of magic themselves, were seemingly exempt to this rule.  
  
Thinking back on it, Aud couldn't pin point just when she had become so sloppy and apathetic in her work. Vengeance was what she did, who she was, so how did she lose her power center? Hell, she hadn't even noticed it was gone until her spell failed! How does one not notice when the focus they had spent over a thousand years channeling energy through goes missing? Her first thought had been because of the Hellmouth, but now she wasn't sure. Could the changing ideal of magic, resulting in a gradual change of magic itself, have leaked over into the demonic plane and affected her? Would it affect others? Perusing books purchased from magic shops and, though she wouldn't have admitted it, checked out from the High School Library and never returned Aud was slightly alarmed at her findings.  
  
Magic was Magic! It wasn't a science, so why were people acting like it was?   
  
She sighed and finished her tea. Sooner or later, it would rebel, and bite everyone in the ass. By habit Aud touched her neck, where the chain of her power center used to be, and shook her head. "It always does, one way or another..."  
  
"Aud!" Her best friend, and Hallie really wasn't evil demon material even if she did have a downright unsettling fascination with the hopping menaces, appeared with a pop of displaced air. She was wearing her human guise and a white nurse outfit, dark ringlets of hair bouncing as she twirled in happiness, and judging by the minute ripples of power coming off the Patron of Lost Childhood she recently willed a Wish. Aud remembered the high that used to come with doing so, and Halfrek always had been a happy drunk. "I think I just beat your old score!"  
  
"Oh?" The former demon asked, curious, as she walked over to the kitchen of her small apartment to retrieve a cup for her friend. She was still experiencing those human emotions that she did not like, but Hallie had been helping, and she was recovering. It would still hurt, would always hurt, but Aud had hopes. "Do tell."   
  
Halfrek accepted the tea with a giggle. "Well, the poor darling was just so... pissed. Righteous, you know those kinds, but her wish.... well... it was so simple I hardly had to lift a finger. She didn't give me very much wiggle room, which I had initially been a bit disappointed with, but you know how much chaos a little typo can make in the information age!"  
  
Aud snorted. She knew, boy did she know... "What's the body count?"  
  
"I can't say." Hallie gave her a smug smile. "I left before the fireworks really got started but, lets just say this is one gift that keeps on giving!" Her head tilted back as she let out a peel of laughter. Eventually she had herself under control and leaned against the counter with the tea cup in her hands as she inhaled the scent of the rose with relish. Aud offered her a sugar, and as she dropped a spoonful into the other woman's drink, she noticed the simple bronze pendant dangling from her neck. Had she been a normal person, the blonde nordic witch probably wouldn't have thought much of what looked like cheap costume jewelry.  
  
A thousand years as a demon channeling reality-altering magics hadn't left her as she had originally been. Aud blinked, and focused on the softly glowing orb that served as prison, conversation piece, and night-light. Then she shifted her gaze back on the power center. Halfrek frowned. "Anya! I'm talking Vengeance, don't you want to hear it?"  
  
"May I borrow your power center for a second?" Aud asked bluntly with her hand out and expression expecting. Hallie tilted her head back, eyes glinting with intelligence, and it was a testament to centuries of trust and friendship that the demon reached back to remove the necklace and hand it over.   
  
She could have shattered it and rendered Halfrek human. She could have held it hostage and used it to summon her own, or attempt to do so at any rate, but she did neither. Aud held it by the silver chain it swung from and compared simple looking bronze bauble to the occupied spirit vault. Her eyes narrowed. "That two-faced lying son of a cow..."


	17. Fun with Dick and Jane

Her skin wanted to crawl off her bones; that was how disgusting she felt. Leaving Elizabeth, dealing with the Hyenas, and all on top of an initial volley had been a punch to the gut.  
  
The water poured out of the shower head hot and steamy. Anita pressed her palms against the cool white tile of the wall and let the pressure of the spray massage her shoulders as it pounded at her in a steady, soothing stream.  
  
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Think calm, soothing thoughts. Cute little penguins zooming down icy slides in a winter wonderland. Anita tried to hold onto the mental image, and though her imaginary penguins continued to frolic about her mindscape pristine snow bled and dark shadows stalked her feathered lovelies.  The pow-wow with the Hyena's had taken longer than Anita would have liked. Narcissus was simply, well, he certainly had an 'it's all about me' attitude. The name fit and more than once Anita had found her hand drifting to her Firestar or her fingers caressing the handles of her knives as her emotions swung from one end of the pendulum to the other.  
  
The few times the hermaphrodite caught her at it he merely smiled, batted his eyes at her, and let out tiny tendrils of arousal that caught in the dark haired woman's throat. She nearly gagged when the hot, musky scent brought up memories best left to the dark corners of her mind where the Executioner lived.  
  
Narcissus would have welcomed the pain. Gloried in it. Anita was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose control.  
  
She had sat and listened to the information exchange, fighting alternating desires to scream and weep, only to learn that the kids had bought bus tickets to just about everywhere in the Show Me state. Rafael added that he believed they went west, which eliminated some of the search area, and Richard volunteered to get in contact with the Bloodrunner Pack based in Kansas City. Anita had questioned why Rafael couldn't talk to the local wererats. Rafael had stated in quiet, matter-of-fact tone that the Master of the City had been a good friend to Nikoloas and also possesses the ability to call rats.   
  
Even if the Kansas Rodere wanted to help, drawing the attention of a sadistic power-hungry mistress down on the runaway children would more hinder than help the situation.  
  
And another piece of the mystery was revealed: the metaphysical bomb that had been dropped east of the Tenderloin had been the little wolf. From what she had heard enough power had been rolled out to force more than one submissive to shift on fear and instinct. All done as a distraction.   
  
It had been a damn good distraction.  As they'd all learned, vanilla incompetence hadn't been St. Peters' Achilles heel. The kids were strong, smart, and had been severely underestimated. But it wouldn't happen again, and they needed to be found before someone bigger and badder decided four baby powerhouses would make a nice addition to their court.  Or a threat they couldn't risk allowing to grow.  
  
Deciding on a plan of action had taken a surprisingly little amount of time. Getting out of the club had taken longer and had not happened until Richard upended the bed and Anita had one of Narcissus' guards at knife point. While the Oba had no fear for himself, he had a duty to his people that he couldn't ignore... or he wasn't qualified to be Oba. Asher had taken over at that point to conclude the negotiations so that the Ulfric and Lupa could _refresh_ themselves.  
  
Anita's fingers curled into fists. Almost without even realizing what she was doing her hand pulled back and slammed into the tile, cracking it down the middle, and Anita shook her head as she traced the jagged break with a finger. She slid to the bottom of the bath, water still coming on hot, and watched as her soaked hair pooled along the bottom of the tub and floated on top of the draining water. It reminded her of smoke trailing into the sky; wisps of ash and vapor.   
  
Screaming, and Hypnotique.   
  
Anita stared at her hands, forced them to unclench, and fought back the nightmares. Her mother was gone and not coming back. Seraphina had not been her mother. She died in a car wreck, a bloody mess, not burning in a building screaming for help.   
  
The animator closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. She had only seen the kids once. They couldn't be much older than she was when she had lost her mother. Had they watched their parents die? Torn apart? Burned? Or had their loved ones become feral vampires? Did they still exist in some form, somewhere, in that death-trap of a cave system beneath the town that didn't officially exist?   
  
"Dammit." Maybe she should have gone for counseling, but she was the heap big vampire slayer.  She hadn't puked at a crime scene in years. She wasn't supposed to run crying to her penguins every time someone brought up her past. She didn't go to pieces just because something touched a nerve. But the ache and longing didn't leave because she said so. It would be nice, if only for a moment, to feel that comfort of absolute safety. Even if it was a lie.   
  
Anita rolled back on her heels and lifted her face to the falling water. It was going cold. "What do you want me to do?"  
  
The sound of the drain gurgling was her only answer.  
  
Truthfully, it was all she had expected. Anita turned off the shower and pulled back the curtain. Steam filled the small bathroom like fog and it clung to her wet skin like fingers of distant memories. She wrapped a fluffy blue towel around her middle and wiped at the mirror over the sink. A lost little girl stared back at her. The silver cross of her grandmother dangled between her breasts as if it were a metronome keeping time to her heart.   
  
Anita pulled up her walls, picked up metaphorical brick and mortar and put everything away. The little girl in the mirror grew up, filled out, and those scared, watery, dark eyes hardened to diamonds of pitch. No one had been there to protect her when she was growing up. Her father had been too immersed in his own grief after her mother died to help, and then bounced back by marrying a woman, the exact opposite of Mother Blake, who had the emotional depth of a kiddy pool. Anita had been the odd-one out. The stain on an otherwise perfect middle-class American white family.  The stain that was sent away like an unwanted pet to a woman who meant well but what she knew of child rearing could be summed up as spoil the rod.  
  
Her bed called to her, the brown linen sheets sung a song of sweet seduction, but she couldn't afford the luxury. Not yet. No one had protected her when she was small. No one had picked her up and bandaged her scrapes or told her everything was going to be alright. Anita finished toweling off and reached for the fresh set of clothing she had left out atop the toilet.   
  
They were going to find those kids. She was going to tell them, convince them, everything would be okay. Then, if anything came after the kids, from freaky-ass vampire clowns to psychotic human predators, she was going to put a bullet in the its fucking brain.  
  


* * *

  
One of the nice things about self employment is the ability to set your own hours. There is no high-and-mighty boss holding a paycheck above your head demanding that you come in from nine-to-five or face the consequences of a bad reference. While occasionally, very occasionally, the money was tight Veronica wouldn't have it any other way. The freedom was far too tempting to give up.   
  
Veronica (Ronnie) Simms swung her hips to the beat of her Walkman as she cream cheesed her bagel. Sometimes nights on stake out could be boring as hell, and that was when a little mood music came in handy. Her hair was still a little in disarray from bed but it wasn't like she had anywhere to be. She bit into her breakfast and turned to wander back to her closet and clothes when a muffled pounding sounded from the door. Frowning, Veronica wiped her fingers on her bathrobe and shifted over to the silverware drawer that also doubled as her mini-armory.   
  
The few spoons, knives, and forks jingled in their tray as she slid open the drawer to reach for her colt. It was a .38, modified for a smaller grip (A Lady Colt the shop owner called it.) and had been customized for the previous owner before she grew tired of it. Ceramic inlay dragonflies were engraved on the barrel. If Anita ever saw it the woman would probably pitch a fit, again, about stereotypes. It was part of the reason Veronica had splurged and bought the thing. Petty, maybe, but damn if it didn't bring a smile to the PI's face when she thought of her friend going off on a rant.  
  
It was partly Anita's fault, anyway. Despite the danger her chosen profession sometimes sent her into Veronica hadn't actually been forced to kill anyone. Except when she was with Anita. Twice she'd blown someone flat and all Anita had said about it was that if Ronnie hadn't done it Anita would be dead. Them or us. Maybe you shouldn't be friends with me.  
  
It was the last bit that had broken something in Veronica. She knew, rationally, that Anita hadn't meant it as a backhanded slap. Years of friendship down the toilet. She wanted to protect Ronnie. But it still felt like it, and if the blonde gumshoe had learned anything tracking down unfaithful husbands, missing children, and the occasional aspiring mafia boss it was that when the bad guys decided to blacklist you, that didn't stop with you. They took the house, the yard, and the family dog. Woe betide to any known friend of said target: they were just more emotional ammunition to be used against whoever had gained the big bad's ire.  
  
Maybe it was simple cowardice and self-preservation, but even only with the bits of information Anita had let slip about Jean-Claude and the vampire politics it seemed in everyone's best interest to get the fuck out. It didn't matter how sexy his voice was, and boy was it, you lived longer if you didn't boink the head honcho of the supernatural party scene.  
  
With this in mind Veronica held her colt down by her side and maneuvered the bagel with her tongue as she continued to nibble on it. Eating without using hands was an art Veronica had mastered long ago. She kept her body to one side of the apartment door and stretched to look out the peep hole. The curve of the glass made everything a little distorted, but she could still make out a familiar, masculine, squared face and the cardboard tray of steaming Styrofoam cups.   
  
Her shoulders relaxed and she slipped the colt into her robe pocket while moving back the chain and offering a bagel filled smiled to her semi-fiancée. Semi, because though she couldn't find anyone better Veronica couldn't quite make that last leap into matrimony. Her last commitment had ended badly, and that was an understatement.  
  
Her current sweetie was content to wait.  
  
"Playing spy?" Louis Fane asked with a slight tilt of the head.   
  
"A girl can never be too cautious." Veronica answered as she shut and locked the door. "How could you tell?"  
  
The brunette tapped the side of his nose. "I can smell the oils. It's faint, so you probably haven't cleaned or fired it in a week or two, but I can still pick it up."  
  
Veronica hummed and gestured to the kitchen. She eyed the coffeehouse drinks with a smirk. "You only bring me coffee in bed when you want something. In bed."  
  
Louis smiled back, but it wilted far too quickly as his eyes hardened. "Sadly, I can't stay. Summer session starts at eleven."  
  
Absently, Veronica straightened her robe and tied it shut. There was less visible than Louie had seen before, but she had a feeling it was time to get professional. The down side to keeping your own hours: they seemed to occur at the strangest times. "What can I help you with?"  
  
They sat down at her kitchenette, each claiming a cup of french vanilla laced jo, and Louis stared at the blue laminate table-top. "You remember at the mall, the kid our Rodere was looking after?"  
  
"Yes...?"  
  
"He was actually one of the brats that busted St. Peters." Louis looked up. Veronica's face was blank and she was staring straight ahead. He reached out and touched the hand wrapped around her coffee. "V-babe?"  
  
Grey eyes blinked and she shuddered while raising her free hand to forestall comment. "Louie. You can't be telling me this. Shouldn't be telling me this. Don't you know how much crap is flying around about those kids? I've heard everything from theories that they're actually vampires, aliens, to a special government black-ops team."  
  
"Aliens?" He asked with a small smile before shaking his head. "We lost them, Veronica."  
  
"What do you want me to do?"  
  
"What you do best. Find people."  
  
Veronica took a long sip from the coffee. "If the entire St. Louis PD can't find them, if you and all the mercenaries that work with you can't find them, what makes you think I can?"  
  
"Call it a hunch." Louis shrugged. "You have contacts, legitimate contacts, and a profession that gives you a reason to stick your nose where it doesn't really belong. You're human, which means most preternatural will overlook you. You can hide the reason behind client confidentiality. We believe they have gone west, most likely headed out toward Kansas City."  
  
Veronica leaned back in her chair and eyed her boyfriend. "I didn't say I would do it. I still don't understand why you want to bring me in. Every time something happens with Anita I never find out until she's in the hospital and needs someone to sign her out. It's," the blonde released her cup so her hands were free to form air quotes. "'Shifter Business'."  
  
Louis shrugged. "Anita has her ideals, even if she won't admit to them. I think that's what attracts so many to her. She's a bundle of contradictions." The blonde PI snorted. "The Rodere has its own way of doing things."  
  
Veronica relented. She remembered that little spit-fire of a boy. Pretty lady, he had called her. Sweet, and smart. Too smart for his own good. He and his friends probably had half the supernatural world after them, either to thank them or use them in the Game. Fucking politics. Another reason she was self-employed: no catering to one side or the other. Freelance was definitely the way to be.  
  
She finished her coffee and mentally cleared the afternoon in favor of looking up who she knew in the border town. "Standards rates apply, and I'm charging you extra coffee dates everyday till it's done."  
  
Sometimes Veronica felt a little hypocritical. She yelled at Anita for sleeping with a vampire and letting herself get dragged into his trouble. Now she was doing the same thing, only her preternatural honey was a rodethrope. But he wasn't the king, and so didn't have hitters out for his head, which was a plus.  Still...  
  
"I'm serious about the coffee dates. I don't care if you have to make a TA put up the bell-ringer, you better be here in the morning with my coffee and retainer. And maybe some chocolate." She tapped a finger to her chin in thought. "And I suppose I can call some people I know in CPS, find out what paperwork we'll need to get started."  
  
Louis laughed as he stood and kissed her cheek while heading for the door. "It will be a bit difficult, we are shape shifters."  
  
"Oh, posh. It's not what you are, it's who you know." She said with a confident smile while locking the door behind him.  
  


* * *

  
Oz ripped several paper towels from the dispenser and scrubbed at his head in a quick frenzy. His scalp still tingled a bit from the dye but as he looked up from the now blue tinged brown paper he couldn't help but grin. It had been a messy job, having only a sink in a coffeehouse to work with tended to make things rushed, but he had done it. Oz's head now resembled a pale blueberry. It was good.  
  
That Place had taken much, taken and carved and tried to freeze out, but they didn't win. You couldn't keep a good scoob down, and now he had reclaimed a bit of himself they had thought to shear off the _animal._ Oz ran his fingers through his tinted hair, smile still in place, and soaked in the sight of himself. Blue. A washed out light color, the color of calm oceans and open skies only a shade away from his grandmother's eyes and the flowers bordering her victory garden.   
  
"Oi! Did ya fall in?" Came a door muffled voice in a New Jersey accent. Oz rolled his eyes and crumpled the paper towels to toss them with perfect accuracy to the wire waste basket by the door. He snagged the box his dye had come in and began stuffing used paintbrushes, unused hairnet, and various other hair care accouterments back into it for disposal. He headed over to the door, which was now being steadily drummed upon, and cocked his head. Unless the musician was very mistaken NJ was beating out the rhythm for Paperback Writer. An odd, but certainly not bad choice.   
  
Oz tapped the lock on the door and it swung inward to open to reveal a brunette his own, mental, age with her hair in a ponytail wearing a black apron embossed with _The 'Spresso Pump, Enough Caffeine to 'Splode Your Heart_. She held a plunger delicately in one hand, a toilet scrubber in the other, and a had bucket of different cleaning solutions at her feet. She blinked at Oz in mid-drum, her improvised sticks inches away from Oz's head, and opened her mouth in awe. "Your head is blue."  
  
"Like a snow cone." He replied evenly and stepped around her. Her head turned to watch him for a second before she gave a mental shrug and picked up her supplies and headed into the bathroom, door closing behind her.   
  
All according to plan.   
  
It was practically an Oz staple to have colorful hair. It was something he could change and control even when the whole Hellmouth was going crazy with murderous teachers, lunar transformations, and weird possessions. Oz liked having his hair all colors of the rainbow, something different every week, but it also served a dual purpose now that they were on the run. The werewolf walked down the narrow hallway back to the brightly lit eating area and inhaled the smell of fresh donuts, danishes, and kolachies. The display fridge was rumbling happily showing a selection of bottled waters and soft drinks. Oz ignored it all and headed to the table in the corner occupied by his compatriots.  
  
He heard more than one intake of breath, a brief flutter of eyelashes as other coffee shop patrons noticed his new hair, and smiled to himself. They noticed the hair, but they wouldn't notice him. Yeah, a kid with blue hair was memorable. A kid without a parent hanging around even more so, but they wouldn't really notice the important things. Misdirection, that was the key.   
  
"I'm telling you, we could so do it!" Xander hissed through a mouthful of muffin as Oz slid into the booth and accepted a steaming cup of cocoa. He was half tempted to try and snort the whip cream. "I mean, we got plenty of experience and it could pay really well if we're selective of which jobs we take. This solves everything!"  
  
"Hmm?" Oz hummed and leaned back into the pleather seat.   
  
Willow was picking at her ham and cheese croissant as she answered his question. "Xander thinks we should be bounty hunters."  
  
"It's not that bad an idea, really." Buffy hedged and Oz noticed she was still favoring her right shoulder. The slayer used it a lot when cushioning her falls. "I know I could kick ass at it, but I just don't think anyone would take us seriously. Besides, how would you even start in that business anyway? Don't you have to get a super-secret invitation and join a guild or something?"  
  
"Like the Free Masons?"  
  
"I thought we going to be riverboat captains, I mean, the Mississippi is right there," Oz gestured out the window vaguely.  
  
Willow laughed and nearly choked on her White Chocolate Mocha, disillusioned teens didn't care who they pedaled their caffeine to, and Oz alternated between rubbing her back and patting it until she was able to breathe again. Tears trailed down the red headed witch's cheeks as she fought to regain her breath. "S-sorry. It's just... Oz... honey... you'd make the perfect Tom Sawyer. We just need to find you a hat."  
  
Oz shared a knowing look with Xander as the girls erupted into a fresh bout of giggles. "So. Bounty hunting?"  
  
Xander blushed and began ripping at the edges of the muffin wrapper. "It's better than Buffy's demolitions idea." The girl in question stuck her tongue out at the brunette before turning back to the television propped up in a corner of the small eatery. "Bounty hunting is almost like assassinations. We can be all cloak and dagger stuff with Willow as the go-between!"  
  
"Me?" The girl squeaked, eyes lighting up with a combination of excitement and coffee born energy. Xander nodded.  
  
"We just have to set up an e-mail account or something, figure how to get into the system and-"  
  
"Guys!" Buffy hissed while jabbing at the far television with a fork that still had a bit of danish dangling from it. The remainder of the scoobies switched their attention to the TV which was set on a local news channel, Oz and Willow having to twist their bodies around uncomfortably, and listened with varying degrees of shock and surprise. Surprise that someone had actually bothered reporting the incident, shock that it was apparently news worthy.  
  
The four friends watched as what was clearly a cemetery, the headstones were a dead give-away, was projected on the twenty-inch screen. Buffy's eyes were wide with indignation before she slowly began sinking into the cushioning of her booth seat as if willing it to swallow her whole. "The Murdocks arrived for an early morning service, a small affair for close friends and family, only to find the burial would have to be postponed." An anchorman with perfectly coiffed hair spoke into his microphone as the camera panned across the dew covered field. "What can only be described as an act of the utmost depravity Mrs. Murdock, still struggling with the unexpected loss of her husband, arrived at Burns Funeral Home and Crematory only to find the chosen grave site, shadowed by her late husband's favorite tree, already filled with corpses."  
  
The scene switched to a view of a hole in the ground with blackened edges while slowly zooming in on the contents. The newscaster's voice continued over the video. "As you can see three preternatural bodies, as yet unidentified, had been dumped in the open grave and set ablaze. Just who and what would do such a thing remains unanswered but police are confident the culprit will be soon caught while security measures around Restfield are increased."  
  
Oz shifted his eyes from the screen to Buffy. The blonde was staring at her pastry. "So that's why you said we needed to buy more kerosene." The werewolf murmured as he nodded his head.  
  
"They didn't goop. They're supposed to goop after you kill them." Buffy grumbled in defense of her actions. "What was I supposed to do?"  
  
Willow had a different opinion on the matter and her cheeks gained a red tinge as she glared at her fellow female. "You said you weren't going far! If you were going to patrol, patrol, you should have taken one of us with you."  
  
"I didn't want to risk it." Buffy whispered back, eyes gleaming with determination. "I wanted to learn the area before putting you guys in the line of fire."  
  
Xander reached over, slinging an arm around the cornered slayer, and sighed. "We understand, but still, you should have said something. You came back all banged up and sweaty. If something had happened you could have been dead in a ditch, instead of those demons, and we would never know!"  
  
"...Thanks a lot, mom. I'll call next time I get in a brawl with the Silver Surfer's ugly cousins." Buffy said with a tired grin and an eyeroll. Xander beamed back at her and swiped the last of her breakfast. "I don't see why they're making me out to be a criminal, I did that place a favor!"  
  
Oz shrugged and chugged the last of his cocoa while gesturing to the door. He had a feeling they were dangerously close to wearing out their welcome, and he had a tingling on the back of his neck that made him think of Willow's Miss Kitty Fantastico ever since that man with the laptop had come in.  
  


* * *

  
Zebrowski was playing Frogger on his gameboy when the light on his office phone started flashing. Several papers were scattered across his desk in the usual messy disarray, but he could always find things when he needed them, and sometimes he found things other, more organized, people had lost so no one complained. He was on his lunch break and didn't want his death defying roadkill time interrupted, and so almost ignored the red light begging for attention. Almost.  
  
That sixth sense Katie jokingly referred to as slacker's intuition twanged sharply in his mind and Zebrowski paused his game to give his phone a closer look. The extension listed in the number display said that it was from the Tech department, so probably not a reporter wanting a statement. "This is Zebrowski, what do you need?"  
  
"Sir? We haven't tracked down the hole in the system," spoke the voice on the other end of the line. It sounded tired and stressed, but weren't they all? "Meyers and Goldstien are still updating with the new firewalls, but we managed to get in the computers from the raid."  
  
Zebrowski sat up and began patting down his desk to locate a memo pad, found it, and cradled the phone between ear and shoulder as he clicked his pen and poised to write. "I thought you said it would be another few days before you even cracked the encryption."  
  
The techie at the other end was silent. It was the uncomfortable kind of silence that generally accompanied cries of 'I plead the fifth!' "Well, Pikely had some samples of the code used to hack into St. Peter's network. And we managed to build off of that to hack into their system. It was still pretty much garbage, but, uh... why don't you come see?"  
  
Zebrowski replied in the affirmative and tucked his notes into a pocket as he set the phone back on the cradle. The kid had been defensive, which meant he probably hadn't used official means to get the job done. He also sounded somewhat freaked like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The detective left his office and headed for the elevator. Two minutes of a music only rendition of Billy Joel's _Uptown Girl_ later the steel doors opened and he found himself in the deep dark dungeon of the IT department.   
  
The smell of stale pizza boxes and energy drinks was heavy on the air.  
  
Also, throw-up.  
  
It reminded Zebrowski of freshman year at college and brought a smile to his lips. He took a turn and knocked on a heavy wooden shelf as he leaned into the lab. "What have you got for me?"  
  
One of the techs was asleep in his chair, mouth open, and another was staring at his computer screen and lines of code that made Zebrowski glad he didn't major in Computer Science. Across the room sat the equipment Dolph had confiscated from the safehouse humming away. Another tech, and the ID hanging from the lanyard around his neck said his name was Bledsoe, had his shirtsleeves rolled up as he waved Zebrowski over. There was a bucket by his chair. As Zebrowski glanced at the photo's and reports while listening to Bledsoe he was thankful for the years of RPIT crime scenes that had acted as a kind of inoculation against horror and gore.  
  
It was still damn tempting to add his own donation to the bucket.  
  
"...and this is your EVE. Formerly known as Evelyn Carter." The man clicked the forward button and a medical profile filled the screen. "Also known as Evie, the Cat, Cartwright."  
  
Zebrowski's pad and pen found themselves in his hands again. "I remember her. Wasn't she supposed to have been on death row for a burglary gone bad?"  
  
They stared at each other. Bledsoe looked away with a whisper, "That's not my problem. I do computers, not criminals." He swallowed and hit another button. "Looks familiar, doesn't he?"  
  
Zebrowski saw the diagrams flash across the screen. He looked at meticulously collected before-and-after shots and felt his stomach flip. Visuals, combined with the smell wafting from the trashcan finally overcame his hard won control and Zebrowski dry-heaved over the bucket, his hand gripping the back of the tech's chair for balance. When the worst of it passed he wandered out into the hallway and some relatively fresh air. "Sir?" Bledsoe called uncertainly.  
  
"Call Sergeant Dolph, tell him I said it was an emergency. I want subjects 1, 2, 5, and 7 under heavy sedation and a medic team on standby. Get those... things... out of them."  
  
"...yes, Sir."  
  
As he headed back to his office and to his own phone, Zebrowski shuddered. It was no wonder the shifters in containment were acting bat-shit crazy. They probably were. He needed to call his wife, tell her that loved her, and then call Perry. They now had a face to go with his killer croc suspect.  
  
Only it belonged to a man that should have been dead.   
  
Zebrowski's lips twitched at the irony. Evidently nothing was staying dead these days. Maybe he could start a petition to make witnessed cremation mandatory? The detective gave the idea three seconds of serious thought before pushing it away. Too much paperwork.  
  


* * *

  
If he had been in to see her, Bert would have been as smug as a bug on a rug. Okay, so that wasn't quite how the saying went but it was fairly apt. Anita sat behind the desk of the shared office in a dark red pantsuit. She looked like a professional, a proper little career woman, and it grated on her sense of rebellion to be dressed as such. But, after this unavoidable consult she had a video conference with her Boss. Not Bert, the man was way too stingy to shell out the cash for the equipment required for such a thing and if by some miracle of happenstance it did happen she would happily walk up to the camera in sweats and a holster.   
  
Marshall Peas was another story. The man reminded her of her grandfather and could make her stare at her toes in shame with just a glance.  
  
"Ms. Blake?"   
  
Anita glanced toward the door and schooled her features as she saw her two O'clock enter in a cloud of chemical smells and depression. The woman shut the office door softly with faintly trembling hands. "Mrs. Finn?" Anita asked, just to be sure, and the woman nodded as she sunk into the padded leather chair that had seen better days. Supposedly, the worn look would give a sense of homeyness to the office. Like the fake greenery in the waiting room distracted from the fact clients wanted you pull their loved ones from the grave.  
  
Molly Finn had asked for her by name and refused anyone else, which explained why Anita was at Animator's Inc., and looked like she had seen better days. Dark bruises bordered red streaked eyes as if she hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week and her skin was pale and washed out. Brown hair hung limply around her shoulders, and from the sharp tang in the air Anita was willing to bet it was a new dye job. Some people broke things in grief. Some baked. Some went out for a make-over. To each their own.  
  
"I understand you recently lost your daughter. My condolences." Anita spoke calmly. Mrs. Finn jerked her head up, Anita saw tears that said they were held back by sheer will alone, and yet the skin at the back of her neck crawled. It was pitiable, a mother morning the loss of a beloved daughter, but there was something strangely artificial about it all. Grey-green eyes bored into her as if they could see past the clothes, past the skin, to the skeleton beneath. Like Anita wasn't really there. The animator swallowed and folded her hands over the desk. "I am, however, uncertain what you want me to do."  
  
"You raise the dead." Mrs. Finn spoke slowly, a curious tint to the words. "Give me back my daughter."  
  
Anita sighed as a flame of anger licked at her insides. She was going to give Bert the verbal beat down of his life. "Animating doesn't work like that, Mrs. Finn. A zombie isn't the person they were, just a... an imprint of them. Like a collection of memories turned on through power, with a high degrade rate."  
  
"She was my daughter. So much time... effort..." Mrs. Finn's hands were clenched over her knees, her lips pressed into a straight line, and Anita shifted in her chair uncomfortably. She wanted to open her mouth and offer comfort except... she didn't. She wasn't sure what to say and the woman honestly gave her the willies. "She was like a part of me, and all that is now gone."  
  
Mrs. Finn shuddered and sighed, tension leaving her body as she smiled at Anita. The smile didn't reach her eyes. Those burned with something that had Anita's fingers itching for the reassuring weight of her concealed Browning. The animator leaned back, face blank, and forced herself to stay still as the bottle brunette reached out to pat her hand. "Well, thanks anyway, Ms. Blake." Brilliant white teeth shone. "It has been an, experience, meeting you."  
  
Anita wasn't sure what to say to that.  She hadn't said much, and done less. "Thank you?"  
  
Molly Finn inclined her head, stood, and wavered for a moment. She moved back to the door, paused, looked back and Anita and sniffled. "You are a very strong woman, Anita." She dragged it out, pronouncing it with a perfect Hispanic inflection, the way her mother used to. Irrationally, Anita's dislike of the woman racketed up another notch.  
  
"It's Ms. Blake."  
  
"Of course."   
  
When the door closed again, Anita looked down at her hands and began searching the desk for sanitizer.  
  


* * *

  
The world was upside down. Or, to be more accurate, Buffy was upside down as she watched the world and the people inhabiting it go their merry way. The fabric of the dress part of her skort was thin, soft, and it tickled her nose as gravity exerted its dominance upon the world. Buffy sneezed, causing her carefully cultivated balance to flee as her arms shook and she came down from her hand stand wiping at her nose in irritation. She smoothed the pink fabric of her skort into place and tugged her cream short sleeve shirt down as she headed over to a shady spot on the playground.   
  
"Six minutes, twelve seconds. Still haven't broken your previous record." Willow informed her as the blonde reached for a water bottle. Buffy had been spending the last half hour doing various stretches to be sure her muscles didn't tighten up from last night's brawl. The demons hadn't been as fast as what she was used to, but they knew how to fight as a group, and had gotten in a few lucky swipes. None of them had been too deep and slayer healing fueled by a hearty breakfast had ensured that what cuts they had given her would be nothing more than thin white lines of memory in a another day or so. The bruises, however, were another story.   
  
Stupid graves and their stupid markers.  
  
"I am Buffy. Slayer of Vampires, Defeater of Demons, brought low by a single sneeze." The girl sighed and dumped half the water over her head. She cracked her neck and glanced at the boys. Xander was engrossed in some weird alternate universe version of Peanuts in which everyone was a werewolf, including Snoopy. Creepy stuff, but supposedly some kind of important cultural indicator. Or something like that. "How goes the recon?"  
  
Oz didn't say anything but there was distinct not-quite-mellow vibe going on that had Buffy preparing for the worst. "Bad or semi-good, first?"  
  
"Semi-good." Good wouldn't be bothering her, but bad would, so best to deal with it last and give it her full attention. Oz sat up and picked through the different newspapers, periodicals, and similar media until he came up with a paper proclaiming itself the St. Louis Post Dispatch. He tossed it her and Buffy flipped it open. "Oh. Huh." She titled her head. "'Cruel and Unusual, the Truth Behind the Façade. By Irving Griswold."  
  
"It talks about... that Place, and what they did. Has interviews with escapees and looks pretty pro-us."  
  
"So, we're not going to jail?" Buffy asked.   
  
Xander looked up from his funnies with a smile. "We aren't. You might be, little miss grave desecrator."  
  
Buffy's face flushed and the paper crunched in her hands. "Hey! I told you! I didn't have a choice, and it wasn't my fault that tombstone cracked in two. It shouldn't have been in my way... and shoddy workmanship." Buffy shook her head. "Anyway, the bad?"  
  
This time it was Willow who held up a magazine. Buffy stared at it. She took the copy of The National Inquirer between her fingers like it was covered in slime and held it away from her body. Willow simply shrugged.   
  
"They seem to have a slightly, very very slightly, better reputation here than home. Instead of making up stories, they just misinterpret everything. Anyway it's page five and the interview you want." The witch paused as Buffy opened to the indicated story. "The guy and his girl were driving home from a date, going over a bridge, when they hit what they thought was some kind of alligator that ended up popping two of the tires. Except it talked. And it went for the girlfriend. The only reason it didn't get her was because the boyfriend is a total conspiracy theory survivalist type and he had silver-laced rounds in his hand gun. He managed to drive it back into the water before calling for an ambulance. The reporter thinks it's some kind of swamp monster."  
  
Buffy skimmed over the article before closing the magazine and using it to fan herself. The water she'd dumped on her head had already evaporated. Damn heat. "Bottom line, people."  
  
"At Peters," Oz had brought his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees, and for a moment Buffy wanted nothing more to hug him. So she did. Oz rolled his head to the side and their gazes locked.   
  
Something dark and primal moved behind both pairs of eyes in perfect understanding of each other, and the wolf leaned into the slayer with a little sigh. Buffy held perfectly still, watching as Willow's brow furrowed in thought, and Oz breathed by her ear, sniffing. Slowly, the werewolf moved back and his eyes were amber again, but there was no hostility and he didn't move from her embrace.   
  
Willow shuffled forward on her knees and sat beside him. They clasped hands and at Xander's questioning look the red head held out her free hand. The other boy smiled sheepishly and joined the huddle. Oz swallowed. "I think this is our fault."  
  
"Our fault?" Buffy asked, worry in her tone, but she didn't let go. Couldn't let go.  
  
Oz nodded. "When I was there, I heard things. Things I probably wasn't supposed to hear. They had experiments and sometimes they would threaten the more rambunctious of us with being sent to the basement. I don't think anyone who ever went to the basement came back."  
  
Xander frowned and inched closer. "But they didn't have a basement. We went over the blueprints. No basement. Some storage rooms, but nothing big enough to keep people in."  
  
"They had something." Oz shrugged. "I dunno what. While I was there... I heard them take two people away. Both women. Screaming as they went. Whatever happened, whatever they did... I think we let it out."  
  
"And now it's hurting people." Willow whispered. She buried her head in Oz's shoulder.  
  
"We made a mess." Buffy summarized. She stared up at the leafy branches of the tree, watching the patterns of the sunlight drift through the canopy. They had been so worried about their wolfy friend, they hadn't thought much about what that would mean beyond busting out. Sure, they had given a passing thought to the other inmates, but it had really only been a passing thought. They opened the gates. Let those who could run, run. She certainly hadn't suspected that there would be something that shouldn't be free hidden in that fucked up _safehouse_.   
  
A cool breeze meandered through the small park bringing with it the sound of other children playing by the jungle gym. Kids let out for the summer that had no idea what could be happening while the scoobies sat and pondered the meaning of existence. "We made a mess. We clean it up."  
  
Xander looked at her and something else, something dark and dangerous, prowled behind his brown eyes. "I thought you might say that."  
  


* * *

  
He wasn't supposed to be there, had no real legal claim, and as far as the council was concerned no right or reason to go. Rupert Giles was no longer a Watcher. They, colleagues he had once respected and even admired, had made that abundantly clear so many months ago when they blew into Sunnydale and had their little torture test. It had been a good wake up call and a reminder of just how much Ripper had hated the Council. Hated his heritage and the duty of the Giles line.   
  
Watching a prepubescent girl no bigger than his little cousin be called and sent out into the night with nothing more than a pair of stakes and fear filled eyes had shattered something inside him. The disillusionment had devolved into drunken debauchery, sowing his seeds where and whenever the opportunity arouse, and of course a little illicit demon summoning. The little girl hadn't lasted a month. And no one seemed to care. She was a Slayer; they died.  
  
Yet his grandmother, Edna, had managed to convince him to put away the magics and return home. Slayers change. The Council remains. For the greater good. You won't change anything, darling, if you aren't there.  
  
Which was ultimately why he found himself staring at the pale, washed out, window barred building before him. Only instead of a child's frightened gaze or the soft, sad, and caring eyes of his grandmother pushing him onward it was the bright, vibrant, life-loving memory of _his_ Slayer that called him to this place. His daughter in all but name and her friends that had fought so valiantly despite not being called. They were not bound by tradition and blood to a fate first envisioned by sorcerers and powers so many eons ago, yet still choose to take a stand. To look the Dark Truth in the face and continue to believe in the Light.   
  
They had a word for that back in the day. Hero.  
  
Giles brushed the thoughts of his adopted children aside and mounted the steps to the asylum with grim determination. While not quite in shambles, the place had a definite sense of fear and panic when paired with the police cruiser parked out front that did nothing for his hopes. There was no nurse at the information desk, but it didn't take much to get the security door to open. That was what the crowbar and his lock picking equipment were for. Giles slipped the tools back into his coat and straightened the lapels.  
  
He continued down the halls and the neat and orderly appearance of the hospital took a turn for dark and messy. While the smell had faded with the drying, Giles could still make out where great pools of blood stained the grout of the tile. Blue tape outlines where bodies had lain stood out in sharp contrast to the once pristine surroundings. One of the wire checkpoints gates hung precautionary from a single hinge and the former watcher could make out bent steel where slim fingers had grasped and pulled.  
  
"...not possible. She had to have had help." Giles grimaced as he heard the distinct voice of one Quentin Travers. His first instinct was to run in and shake the man, demanding explanation and retribution for the lost children, but that wouldn't have done anything but give the former librarian a brief respite from his own dark mood. Giles pushed his fists into his pockets and slowed his pace to listen. "Still, she can't have gotten far and the special operations team excels in tracking. Even in an urban environment."  
  
His fingernails were digging into his palm and Giles didn't think the sudden wetness gathering between his fingers was sweat.  
  
"Killing more babies, Quentin?" Giles chose the diplomatic approach as he ducked under the yellow police tape and leaned against the door frame. The director of the Watcher's Council stood in the room surrounded by a gaggle of groupies, researchers and administrators who had never been in a true fight, noses in the air and disapproval clear on their faces. He knew he didn't look very respectable, face unshaven and wrinkled clothes with the slightest scent of whiskey, but Giles didn't particularly care.  
  
The considerably more balding man barely glanced at him; instead, his attention was on the blood drawn runes circling the center of the room. The bed had been kicked aside to make space, one of the legs missing, but it was the walls that grabbed at the historian's attention. They were covered in drawings of demons, mostly vampires, but along the top of the wall just before it met the ceiling a single form bordered the entire room. The detail was exquisite.  
  
Olvikan.  
  
Fresh blood had been smeared across the mandibles, dripping down, and a tiny figure stood before it with one arm raised high.  
  
"You are no longer a member of the council, Mr. Giles." The head of the IWC spoke as he turned from his examination of the ritual marks. "This is none of your concern."  
  
"Looks to me like you could use all the help you can get." Giles replied. He had to drag his eyes away from the Olvikan circling the room to the runes. They looked somewhat familiar, and with all the last-minute research he had done over the past three years it didn't surprise him, but he couldn't quite place where they were from.   
  
"Everything is under control." Nancy replied primly, her hands picking nervously at her shirtsleeves.   
  
"Two in a row." Giles shrugged and flexed his hand, joints popping, before rifling through his pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes to light up. "Excellent work. Spot on."  
  
"I can have you deported, Mr. Giles. One would think a man in your position would show a bit more respect." Travers intoned as his yes-men tittered. The ex-watcher simply tilted his head back and blew out the smoke. There was very little he cared about, and they didn't have any power over what of that remained. "However, if you wish to assist us in locating the Slayer we may be lenient."  
  
"Funny thing I've noticed, Quentin." Giles blinked as his mind finally clicked on what the runes were: a ritual of concealment used by the Council in the 1400's to prevent enemy mages from scrying for the Slayer. Somewhat archaic and inhumane, it required a sacrifice after all, but clever. Very clever. He wondered how Dana had known to do it. Who she had used to fuel it. How sane she was, if at all. Giles couldn't remember the last time an unstable Potential had been Called. "Slayer's tend to live longer when the Council isn't looking over their shoulder. Wonder why that is?"  
  
"How dare you-" One of the other watchers hissed but stopped as Travers raised his hand. All of them could hear the sound of multiple pairs of shoes clicking along the linoleum and heading over.   
  
A uniformed officer peeked his head in the door, a notebook in hand, and frowned as he looked from Travers and companions to Giles. "Is there a problem, Mr. Travers?"  
  
"As a matter of fact," Travers started and Giles snorted. He got what he wanted, anyway.   
  
"I was just leaving." Giles smothered his cigarette on the wall on one of the few spaces clear of scribbled drawings. He passed by the cop, stuffed his hands back into his pockets and headed back to the front door, but not before hearing a cell phone go off and the surprised response.  
  
"What? What do mean she killed them all?!"  
  
Dana the Vampire Slayer, twelve years old, and madder than a bag of pissed off cats. Killed over half of the staff during her escape from the LA's premier asylum. Showing signs of advanced slayer dreaming AKA precognition.   
  
Giles the Watcher, loyal council member, saw the situation for what it was and determined that the best action would be to locate the poor girl and put her out of her misery and allow for a more stable slayer to take her place. But he wasn't a watcher anymore.  
  
Giles the Man, the would-be father, had different ideas. He stood on the top steps and smiled grimly as he caught sight of the distinctive council owned vehicles. Ripper peaked out behind his eyes and swaggered over to the cars as he lit up another cigarette and flipped open his Leatherman. Play time.


	18. In A Young Girl's Heart

The world blurred, and Buffy squeezed her eyes shut in response as she rubbed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger in an effort to stall the vertigo. Xander was at her side, a hovering ball of anxiousness, but she waved off his help as her temples throbbed. She could hear wind in her ears.  Lights pulsed against her closed eyelids: red, white, blue. A moment later the tilting feeling faded, and she pushed off the tree she'd braced against in order to take cover in the scrub that lined the road. There were more people waltzing around than the night before and it did not make for a happy Buffy. She eyed the main entrance to Restfield and the pair of squad cars sitting out front.  
  
The slayer slapped at a bug that flew too close to her eyes, and blinked alarm.  Funny; she could have sworn the strobe lights were on just a second ago, but now the lights were off and engines cool.  
  
Buffy shook the discontinuity from her mind, but couldn't stop the pout that filled her face as she glared at the distant glowing window from her hiding spot. A bubble of indignation welled up in her chest, strong and strange, and it was as though she could rub at it with her palm and feel the heat seep through her skin. They were treating her community service like it was a crime. Which it so wasn't! She was providing a valuable service! Undead pest control. Yeah. Nothing wrong with a girl walking around a cemetery late at night and grill'n some baddies.  
  
Buffy sucked on a hard candy and considered her options. The news guy -and was it just her or did all news guys look and sound the same?- hadn't been kidding. Restfield's security had been beefed up since last night's activities, which was a major pain. The whole point of her separating from the group to check it out had been so that she _knew_ it. Intimately. Down in her bones.  
  
When a slayer walked a graveyard she didn't just walk it. She learned it. Breathed it. Owned it. Buffy could have drawn a map with her eyes closed and pointed out every shortcut, tombstone, marker, and even give a rough estimate of how recently a particular grave had been dug and/or filled in. Dead things, especially making them dead, was what she did. If a nasty was going to jump out and come after her family she wanted to know the quickest possible route to save them.  
  
But all of the preparation was fairly pointless when the bone yard she'd scouted had a cop car out front. The boys in blue weren't even in there, but out eating enchiladas and drinking coffee in the caretaker's hut or schmoozing with the rent-a-cops that were wandering around with their big fat so not stealthy maglites of doom. "Can't do it, Wills." The blonde slayer informed her friend while tugging free one of her curls from a thin branch. She was _really_ starting to hate Missouri.  The humidity was murder on her hair and made it look like a bad perm.  
  
"Why not?" The witch questioned as she crawled forward, clearly trying to be sneaky but not quite managing it as her dress became permanently grass stained and her necklaces clinked against each other.  Her friend looked out over the roadside shrubs, lips pressed together in  subconscious and adorable pout. Willow had to squint her eyes to make out the distant cemetery entrance, but the distinctive lights mounted atop the cars were bulky. Hard to miss. "Jeeze. It's like they're expecting some criminals to return to the scene of the crime..." Boyish laughter came from the two person peanut gallery and Buffy raised her eyebrow as Willow blinked and her mouth made a little, "oh."  
  
"Yep." Oz articulated with his usual aplomb. He was leaning against a tree trunk, one leg stretched out before him and the other serving as an elbow rest. Their bags were piled by his side and briefly Buffy thought of a dragon guarding its treasure, but Oz was not a dragon nor the bags treasure. She shook her head and stared resolutely toward the distant burial ground. Where before she had easily climbed the wrought iron fence bordering the extensive lands, the practical side of her discarded the idea. Willow had put her foot down, and the memory of her friend red-faced and worried sent a surge of guilt to mingle with the vexation she harbored about the reaction to her slayage. The combination made her want to hit something. Or cry. She wasn't quite sure which; darn hormones gearing up for the puberty fairy. Either way they wouldn't be splitting up anytime soon lest they face the wrath of the resolve face.  
  
Oz had sided firmly with his girlfriend on that one, and Buffy found herself outvoted. While the wolf may be able to keep up with her, if the guards discovered them during the small ritual it took to gather potent graveyard dirt, she didn't think Xander or Willow would be able to keep up in their miniaturized forms. The cops wanted them. The vampires wanted them. Buffy wanted to stay away from both camps even if they meant well.  
  
The road to Hell was paved with good vibrations.  
  
Buffy ground her teeth. Slayer night vision was good and she could see someone moving in the little caretaker's hut. She had seen others move out earlier with flashlights and radios, patrolling, and she hated it. That was her job, dammit. They probably weren't even doing it right; making noise and warning anything and everything for miles! The slayer rolled her candy around her mouth, enjoyed the cherry flavoring, and counted to ten like Giles had taught her. Granted, he had done it in an attempt to get her started in meditation but her mother said it was good for keeping her from making a snap decision and doing something stupid.  Stupider.  
  
Willow crossed her arms and tapped her bottom lip with a dirt encrusted fingernail. "This can't be the only graveyard. Sunny-D had like, thirty something. And this town is way bigger than the Dale, plus it probably gets run off from Kansas City. I want my dirt." She was playing with a blue stoppered jar.  
  
"But I only checked this one. It was closest."  
  
"What about the Potter's Field?" Xander piped up from his spot on the ground. He had been bored and built a little house from broken off twigs on the dirt where he had been passing the time, poor man's Lincoln Logs, and the brunette was carefully placing waxy leaves to build a roof as he spoke. "Take maybe forty five minutes, hour tops to walk there. I think. Probably."  
  
"True." Oz confirmed. Willow was looking hungrily toward the cemetery, and Buffy stared at her shoes. Already they were loosing that new shoe shine and try as she might the soles were already caked in mud. At least if they went walking she could scrape the stuff off on the nearest curb. As it was they were sitting ducks for the mosquitoes. Bug kind, not undead variety. "You okay with that, Willow?"  
  
Buffy flexed her hands. She was nervous, irrationally so, but with the persecution and the dreams and everything else piling one atop another her body was winding itself up for a fight. The struggle with the monsters last night had only taken the barest edge off of it. Call it instinct, call it experience, call it the power of slayerdom or whatever but she knew, somehow, that something was coming. There was a fight her body recognized and wanted to go to. She just didn't know when or where it was and the suspense left her feeling like she was walking through a field full of pins and needles.

Buffy really, truly hated needles.  
  
She should be starting college or going into an internship; maybe with a security firm like her aptitude test suggested. She should be safe in bed or in a warm bath. She should be in that thrice-cursed cemetery getting Willow's dirt so they could all have a good night's sleep without nightmares.  
  
But she wasn't, and they weren't, and it was her fault for thinking she could be all sneaky and sly. If she had just told them... Buffy sighed and crunched the candy between her teeth. "Okay. You know how to get there?"  
  
"Nope." Xander responded quickly as he placed the last leaf on the roof with a flourish as if he were a chef garnishing a dish.  
  
Oz stood up and swung on one of the packs before taking his guitar in hand. "I picked up a map of the city when we went on recon earlier. I'll lead."  
  
"Right. Okay then."  
  
She could see them, point and count her scoobies out -one, two, three- but that uneasy feeling persisted as a tickle in the back of her mind.  A flutter in her stomach.

 

 

* * *

  
Something was wailing: high pitched and irritating to her ears. Dana wanted to find it and shred it to pieces. Not even newly hatched Jiini'Ack demons were as annoying as whatever manner of being made that oscillating sound. She scowled as she attempted to follow it, but it kept moving and changing directions, and Dana was having some difficultly navigating the land. Not long ago this had been a small village along the ocean. Fishing and trade. She remembered walking along the coast, salty spray against her skin, and warm soft soil beneath her feet. Yet she also knew with some gleeful instinct that the cutest little shoe boutique was just down the kingsroad, highway, only a few minutes from a school. Her school?  
  
Dana ran along the human made mountains, bare feet slapping against grit and debris, heart pumping, wind teasing at her dark curls. There was a gap, a small chasm between one building and the next, which she easily leapt and as she did so her mind flashed back. Happy laughter as companions ran with her, running and dodging and climbing. Never stopping. A smile crept up her blood smeared face at the memory, and it didn't matter if it was hers or not because those thoughts warmed her from the inside and left a pleasant tingling all the way down to her toes. At long last the creature making the irritating noise stopped moving, and she slowed as vehicles flashing, too bright lights buzzed by on the path below her.  
  
She could smell the fire before she saw it. Burning paint, gasoline, and metal mingled to create a uniquely acrid scent drifting out around the city. Dana reveled in it, for beneath the ash and charring car parts was the familiar and welcome smell of roasting flesh bringing to mind warm nights spent under open skies and low singing. The blood and bone boiling and popping in the inferno painted the most wonderful pictures in her mind; enemies long since dust and ancient fields of glory. Dana breathed deep and closed her eyes, stilling her body behind the concealing yellow glare of a sign as she rode out the visions. Lifetimes.  
  
Broken, half formed voices floated on the wind. "Of the survivors...breaks failed... tampering..."  
  
"Do... know who...?"  
  
"Could... accident? Timing would have to..."  
  
"Amazing... only the convoy..."  
  
Shuddering, the small slayer came back to the here-and-now and crouched down to use the short concrete roof edging of the Kwik-Stop for cover. She crawled across the roof and licked her chapped lips as tendrils of heat caressed her cheek. Flames reached for stars blotted out by the cities' lights and Dana watched with a wicked glee as a man, balding and weak, was placed on a rolling bed and taken into the squealing carriage. A survivor, by luck or contrivance she didn't know, but his condition was a fragile thing. Lives were fragile things and humans broke so easy.  As did demons, for that matter, if you knew what you were doing. Dana snorted and moved away from the flaming wreckage and back to the shadows.  
  
Shadow men. Worshipers of the balance, the middle ground between dark and light where the shadows dwelt, were in her city. Territory. Hunting ground. They thought to take her with sweet words and shame as they had so many others so many times before. Duty. Responsibility. Honor. Tradition. To uphold the legacy of those that came before and hold the line against the enemies of the people... for she was born with the strength and skill to fight the demons and the vampires. The Chosen One.  
  
Chosen.  
  
One.  
  
Singular. Then why did she, Dana frowned as she ran over the rooftops in deep thought, why did she keep seeing another? Why did she have short, brief memories of being two? Dual recollections. Two slayers. The thought was ridiculous and yet...no matter. It had no bearing on her purpose. She was Slayer. She need know nothing else. She had died and lived and died again in a never ending chain and what did it matter if that chain branched off? If she lived two lives at once? Ultimately, such things did not change her purpose.  
  
The rush of the hunt still sung through her body. She'd taken them. Taken the false wisemen of the white temple and the servants of the shadow that had thought to best her. Her. She who was _not_ a mere servant, but the Hand. Strong. Immortal. Endless.  Should this coil fall, her eyes would simply open on another.  Dana continued running, savoring the freedom of movement that came from a drug free body, and cast her awareness out over the city. People, places, things; she leapt over them like a ghost on the wind until her ears picked up a scream, human, slicing through the air before being prematurely cut off.  
  
As a hound on the scent she abruptly changed direction.  The slayer turned on her heel, and scampered along a couple of apartment complexes before making a jump that turned into a roll upon landing. Clean, sparkling buildings gradually became brick and mortar. Old, aged, and familiar. Hadn't she grown up here, back when Dana was just... Dana? Before the man came and...  
  
Needles, needles going into her arm. She couldn't move and the world was awash in lying sweet smells. Which color will he use today?  
  
"I'm sorry, Honey. It's for your own good." Not understanding as someone told her it would be okay, that they would help her, and someone else took her arms and led her away.  
  
Needles, needles, needles. Making her weak. Stealing her strength. Violating her body in a thousand different ways a thousand different times. "Find the flaw in the center..."  
  
Something wrong with her? Something broken in her mind...?  False speakers.  
  
Dana scattered the unpleasant thoughts with a shake and grinned viciously as she cartwheeled off a ledge and into fell into shadows, twisting her body mid-drop. Meat pulped beneath her feet as she landed heavily on the shoulders of a large demon with the gravity and power fueled force of her descent cracking bone and disjointing an arm. The beast, a sickly pale thing covered in dark veins, roared in pain and anger, whirling, while tossing a bleeding brunette against the stained wall where she hit a stack of wooden crates. The whole place was saturated with the creature's scent; dark and musky as though it had been hunting and feeding in this little corner of the world for a long while.  
  
Dana had to scramble to her feet when it shook her off, foot long claws emerging from the demon's skeletal hands, and with a flick of her wrist a scalpel shimmered to her fingers as she began a dance she knew better than any living thing.  
  
The bleeding woman sinking unconscious against a graffiti covered wall was nothing; white noise compared to the bright reality of the too white skin and wide pupilless eyes. The slayer twirled over puddles of filth as she maneuvered around the creature. When was the last time she fought this particular breed? What was its weakness? She couldn't rightly recall, memories were hazy, and as the veins beneath lizard like skin pulsed Dana didn't care. A dying bulb flickered as a door opened and shut, rapidly, humans seeing and disbelieving; forgetting. Her blade, a prize taken from the hands of those that had thought to hold her, kissed demon skin like a lover in quick, light passes, but each brief contact left a trail of brightly glowing blood. She was small, a small target, and the creature had gotten fat and complacent. It forgot fear. It forgot the fight. How to fight.  
  
For its arrogance, it would die by inches.  
  
"What the hell are you?!" The growl was throaty and scared. Dana felt a flicker of annoyance at the creature's ignorance and grunted as a thrown trashcan lid crumpled against her ribs. She bounced off a wall and grabbed at a rusted fire escape, and with it as an anchor point kicked the demon's head before swinging up to the small platform and perching like a bird, head cocked to the side.  
  
"Destruction." Blue blood coated her scalpel, and she sniffed at it curiously as she watched the demon fall to its knees, keening, and staring with shock at the gaping hole where a five chambered heart should have been. The cold muscle pumped weakly in Dana's fingers as she squeezed it. Washed out eyes filled with that same blue as the demon convulsed, rough brown clothing darkening from soaked up blood, and gasped like a fish before exploding in a wash of bright neon blue. The alley looked as though an angry chef had come through and smeared the wall with jello, or perhaps a modern artist. The slayer dipped her fingers in the mess and rubbed it over her eyes as if it were eyeshadow, and she remembered. A clan of beasts, seven, and each one with blood a different color of the rainbow. España. "Muerte."  
  
Dana hopped down to ground level and glanced at the former victim. Bits of wood had scattered around the alley from the woman's rough landing, and her skirt was riding up showing all the world her black lacy underthings. Blood leaked out of her mouth, and her neck was beginning to bruise, but she was breathing. Alive. Dana nudged her limp body with a toe. No reaction.  
  
Was she supposed to do something? The small girl had a nagging feeling she was supposed to do something.  
  
The slayer frowned and picked up a broken piece of crate while considering her options. She tossed the crude stake in the air and caught it, repeated the process, and nudged at the woman again though this time she noticed the embarrassingly heavy make up. And the coat. It was a nice coat that reached down to the woman's thighs and on Dana it would go all the way to her calves. It was probably warm.  
  
The deadly girl paused, head cocked to the side, and crouched over the still unconscious woman with a happy smile as she hummed under her breath.

 

 

* * *

  
"Murdering bitch." Maggie -Molly to her deceased father- cursed softly as she ran her hands through her short brown hair. Her world was in shambles and her children scattered. Her best and brightest had run from her. Heard the klaxons roar and scampered in frenzied bids for freedom, and it was only the fact their programming denied them the ability to attack their creator that she wasn't in so many mushy pieces being digested in hybrid bellies. But she didn't hold their nature against them, she had, after all, designed them that way. Driven them to it.  
  
But her daughter was dead. Her Eve was blown away and she knew -knew- it was all that little animator's fault. Given time, and resources, Maggie could rebuild. Her greatest achievement was still out there, alive and free, and even if most of her data had been destroyed by a bunch of meddling kids, she was still alive. The Genesis project would continue.  
  
A figure entered her chambers bearing a tray with tea and a jar of honey. Maggie smiled tiredly as she set her paper to the side, plans for the future and contact numbers for a few of her more radical backers, and rose the meet her beloved. "Professor." His voice was empty, expressionless, and had been for some time. Once in a while Maggie felt a wriggle of guilt, but those feelings quickly evaporated as she looked upon her Riley. Young, handsome, healthier than a horse, and hers.  
  
Completely.  
  
She set the tray to the side and stepped into his arms. "How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Maggie." She whispered as his hands moved down her back and she licked at his bare chest and the small scars where incisions had been made and modifications performed. For the greater good. Quickly, almost too quickly, something hot flared in his eyes before vanishing into submission.  
  
"Sorry, Professor."  
  
"Mmm." Sweet Curie, she was exhausted. Pulling out the legitimate false identifications and finding a secure place had been far too much trouble. Kinsey and his government goons were damned difficult to avoid -didn't they understand how important her work was?- but her little soldiers had been up to the task. More than up for it.  
  
No crying over split hydrochloric acid, as her mother used to say. She could rebuild her family, better, more obedient, and get her prodigal son back.

 

 

* * *

  
It rapidly became apparent why the small graveyard was called Potter's Field, and it wasn't because it was filled with criminals no one wanted. Yes, Giles had managed to shove some history down her throat. Mainly because it was important to know your enemy, and though the demon that took up residence in a corpse usually conferred some level of instinctual fighting skill if the vampire was a former stay at home mom it was usually a bit easier to take down than a former gang member on PCP. Usually. Mrs. Katie from the cul-de-sac down the street had possessed a crazy good spinning backkick before losing her balance and impaling herself on her own white picket fence.  
  
Buffy watched, poised on the balls of her feet and standing guard, as Oz helped Willow and Xander down from the tree they were using as a ladder to get into the cemetery. The whole field was an old family site, paid for and maintained by the descendants, with very little security. Every last headstone in sight belonged to a Potter. James Potter Sr. Danielle Potter. Richard Potter. Potter, Potter, Potter... Weasley, weasley. Buffy snorted and shifted on her feet as the little parody song went through her head. "Wanna share with the rest of the class?" Xander questioned her with a smile as he hit the ground and brushed pieces of moss and bark from his palms.  
  
Buffy shrugged. "Just thinking about the difference between Potters and Badgers." She swept her hands over her hair, gripped and twisted the curly strands into a bun, and then threaded a spare stake through it to hold the mass up and away from her face. Not very hidden, but also quicker and easier to draw if she lost her main stake and she just couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling lurking around her heart. It was like a light, almost intangible pressure of badness. Like a siren song that called to her, only she wasn't quite sure what it wanted her to do. "Me and Oz will scout the perimeter: you two going to be okay?"  
  
"This place is tiny compared to back home. We run into trouble, we'll scream. I got tons of practice." Xander grinned while hefting the crossbow in his hands. It wasn't Buffy's, it was smaller and somewhat delicate looking, and Buffy wasn't sure she trusted it. Give her good, solid oak any day.  
  
"Alright." Buffy looked at him, eyes dark reflecting mirth and something else, a dark thing that she had last seen armed with a rock. Giving herself a shake, the blonde slayer smothered her worries. She was probably just being paranoid. No one knew where they were. Xander was probably just as annoyed as she was.  
  
"Come on, Buff." Oz took her shoulder and steered her off to the side. They walked in a companionable silence, side by side, with a quiet rhythm. The grass here was more brittle, dead, not having the constant chemical treatment of the more upscale public graveyards but Buffy preferred it. That meant there was less of a chance of them being bothered. Out of sight, out of mind. "It's not your fault, you know."  
  
Buffy jumped and stared at the wolf. "What? Who said anything about anything?"  
  
"You've been jumpy all day." He wrinkled his nose pointedly and Buffy stared at him blankly. He could smell her unease? That was just... weird. And kinda gross. Come one, come all: see Oz the Magical Scooby Mood Ring. He knows when your happy, he knows when your sad, he knows when Aunt Flow has come to visit.  
  
"Does everyone know?"  
  
"Xander suspects, but that's more from experience than anything else, I think. He's a pretty intuitive guy."  
  
Buffy rubbed her forehead with her free hand. "Please. It's too late for more than two syllable words."  
  
"Just saying."  
  
The slayer glanced at a grave that looked too smooth. Everything else around it was untouched and covered with old growth, but the ground at the tombstone was a rich smooth brown dirt with new growth. Buffy chewed at her lip and kicked a rock as the silence dragged on. "It IS my fault. I should have taken care of him, or made sure he didn't escape his kennel. I should have known there was a bad-guy around."  
  
"No. You couldn't have."  
  
"I'm the slayer, I'm supposed to-"  
  
"No!" Oz growled, hand snapping out to grab her arm and bringing them both jerking to a stop. "It isn't your fault. If anyone, it's mine. I should have said something..."  
  
In a small voice, Buffy pried his fingers from her arm and held them, responding. "You were drugged."  
  
"And you aren't omniscient."  
  
Logic, how she loathed it. She was so damn tired of life giving her lemons; anymore and she would drown in the lemonade. "What did I say about those syllables?"  
  
"...syllable has three syllables."  
  
Where oh where was the convenient wall to beat her head against when she needed it?

 

 

* * *

  
Everything had to be perfect. Well, actually, it didn't have to be perfect. Willow knew perfectly well that more often than not witches and warlocks threw superfluous rituals into their spell casting to throw off any other witch trying to copy or steal their spells. Magic was more about Will and Intent, but still, just to be on the safe side, she was going to go the whole Herbert so that when she collected more dirt than needed for the Mojo bags the rest could be bottled for future use and retain its grave-y potency, burial mound kind and not the sauce, which meant she waved Xander out of the casting area to wander about, herself busy walking around a random grave while burning some amaranth. As she lit her cinnamon scented bath candles from Dollar General and pried up a circular section of sod she connected to that pool of power within her, neither hot nor cold, but just right.  
  
Magic was building, called from her whispered chant as she walked her circle, and it whirled around her legs like an eager, bouncing puppy. She glanced at the name on the headstone, Alicia Potter Beloved Wife and Daughter, and swallowed down her nervousness. "Alicia Potter, I humbly ask your blessing." She scraped her dagger through the reveled soil, three quick slashes, and hissed as she accidentally nicked her own finger causing a surge of blood-drawn magic. "Smart move, Willows... genius." The red head hoped it didn't taint what she was already doing, getting the necessary materials was proving far too troublesome.  
  
She shook out her hand and moved to suck on the injured digit, but before she could the ground beneath her lurched and roiled. Willow tried to scramble back but a gray hand burst from the ground to take her wrist in a death grip. The earth rippled as though it were water and a head emerged with white, dead eyes. She tried to pull away, but she was so small and the hand was like a vise on her arm and her struggles just helped the dead woman climb out of the ground that much faster. Willow opened her mouth to scream, heart jumping into her throat.  
  
Nothing came out.  
  
Green eyes stared in fascination as the woman with long black hair yawned, mouth gaping, and kissed her bleeding fingers, suckled at them, and all the while dead-white eyes never left the young girl's face. "X-X-Xander!" Willow finally managed to choke out. Why did the dead things follow her home? Why did they come after her? It wasn't fair!  
  
There were probably all sorts of diseases in that mouth, and the tongue kept lapping at her blood like some kind of cat. It also tickled.  
  
"Let go!" Willow squeaked as she started hitting the zombie woman's head with the pommel of her dagger, each strike carrying a resounding thwack through the cemetery, but the woman seemed to ignore the hits entirely. "I'm sorry! I just wanted some dirt! I didn't mean to bother you!"  
  
Unknown laughter answered her panicked cries and Willow stood, head whipping around for the source. The zombie had let go of her hand, finally, allowing the witch to turn her immediate attention to the vampire that was approaching her little grave desecration. He was good looking, easily model material, with long Fabio-esque brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail at his neck and wearing a loose button dress shirt and slacks. "Oh, little witch, you really don't know what to do with all that power, do you?"  
  
"Err." Eloquent as always, Willow thought derogatorily as she backed away instinctively. Suddenly, the zombie making a midnight-snack out of her hand didn't seem so bad. The vampire offered a pleasant smile as he strolled toward them, almost at a glide, and Willow could see his fangs. But then he stopped, looking at the ground, and tutted as though he had caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.  
  
Willow could hear grass crunching as her friends came running. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face as she forced herself to remember to breathe while inching toward her backpack.  
  
"You forgot a very important element in your circle, child. I am surprised..." He tilted his head to the side and crouched down, a slim, almost feminine finger caressed the grass as his eyes zipped from Willow to the zombie that waited with the infinite patience of the dead. "...or perhaps not. It is so hard to learn proper protocol without a teacher. I think, I think my Mistress would be pleased to have you."  
  
Willow swallowed hard and wished she was wearing something other than a sundress with leggings and Mary Janes. She was cute and adorable, which was normally something she liked being, but she felt like a child. Despite her small size she would have given anything for a good leather jacket and boots at that moment. She felt like a rabbit before the wolf, and not the sexy Jessica kind either.  
  
"Stay back, fiend!" Willow yelled as she scrambled for the crucifix in her bag. She held it up, face set in concentration as she ignored the dead brunette that was now batting at her side with handfuls of... dirt? What? She had asked for it, hadn't she? Willow shook her head and hissed, "Not now, Mrs. Potter."  
  
He didn't stop, he ignored her best male friend who was wanting to know who he was and what he wanted. The vampire stood, eyebrow arched, and Willow felt her insides quiver as Xander narrowed his eyes and let his crossbow bolt fly. The vampire widened his own eyes in surprise and moved just enough for the shot to hit his shoulder instead of his heart and Willow felt a ripple of power as he pulled the wooden implement from his body.  
  
"Willow!" Xander screamed, but it felt like something far away. She hear Oz snarl something, knew Buffy was coming. But all she could do was stare into those annoyed brown eyes. Eyes like chocolate, but with a bitter darkness that threatened to swallow her whole. Then they started to glow and something like a gunshot went through her eardrums. Stone crumbled.  
  
"Silly witch. A cross is nothing without Faith." He laughed darkly, only a step away and unmoved by her weapon. Willow blinked, at a loss, confused and scared. Vampires didn't get this close to a cross, not on their own volition. They just didn't. Period.  
  
"I've seen it work... I know it works." She trailed off. It was hard to think. Her thoughts were moving through viscous molasses, two deep pools of it, and it was all she could do not to drown. The zombie hadn't moved; it simply sat as if waiting. There was an animated dead thing at her side and before her eyes, and she was on a precipice walking a tightrope, and if she wavered the least bit she would be lost to that abyss. His laughter wrapped around her like a dark thing, hot and cruel, and sent a thrill of fear through her insides.  
  
In her mind, she remembered sitting at her grandfather's lap. Remembered being small, even smaller than her current size, and listening to stories. Words bubbled up in her ears; Faith and Belief are very different things. Even Satan believes in God, but he does not have Faith in Him.  
  
The vampire plucked the cross from her hands and rubbed the pinprick tears from her eyes. He was going to carry her away, and maybe she should just let him. It was just one thing after the other, the world kept changing the rules on her, and she wanted to let someone else worry about it. Maybe if he took her, he would spare her friends? They were too small to offer much of a meal, anyway.  
  
She'd been with Xander forever, since kindercare, and Oz was new and precious to her. Her first, possibly last, real boyfriend. And Buffy. What would Buffy do? Buffy was a fighter to the last; the blonde would never give up.  
  
"Willow!" The scream was distant, desperate. "Don't listen to him!"  
  
Rule Number One, a mental voice that sounded suspiciously like Cordeila of all people snarled in her mind, no self sacrifice! Could you really be that selfish and leave your friends behind?  
  
The vampire was taking his time, gloating, and she felt her eyelids grow heavy. What did she have Faith in? Something she couldn't see, couldn't quantify, but truly believed in the inexplicable impossibility of? The magic of... Magic? Warm and loving and like a drug that showed her how amazing the world was. The goddess, a mother to cradle and accept her when her own was too busy going to conferences or trying to place her daughter in one of many statistical pegs. "I have Faith." Because it, she, was always there. Always had been. Always would be. You just had to reach out and open up to the possibilities...  
  
Love.  
  
Friendship.  
  
Heat.  
  
More than a gust of white hot magic -a raging inferno of protectiveness- rushed through her body, pooled in her chest, and as she glared up into those lying brown eyes suddenly filled with fear Willow grinned mercilessly. Brilliant pink tinted light exploded outward, and the vampire screamed as the skin around his face pulled taught, an action reminiscent of the old Sunnydale Vamps, and he fell back while shielding his face as skin dried from an impossible heat and leeched strength away.

 

 

* * *

  
Buffy's insides twisted sharply, like someone had reached in and decided to use her guts as a stress ball, and she gasped as her legs wobbled tipping her sideways against the polished cement of Mr. Gregory Potter. Great Leaping Lemurs of Liechtenstein, she couldn't remember having pain so sharp since she first became a slayer! It was supposed to be a warning, not a hindrance. From the pounding in her head it had to be a big, nasty bloodsucker, too. Strong. Old. The blonde was groaning as her mind tried to process the feelings and her whole body ached for seemingly no reason at all.  
  
This was not how her spidey-sense was supposed to work, dammit, and there was something brushing against her mind trying to force its way in. Come this way, it seemed to say, Change.  
  
Come to me.  
  
Buffy didn't trust the brain invader, but as the direction it wanted her to go was the same direction she was already stumbling toward they didn't have to argue about it. Her friends were in trouble. Oodles and oodles of trouble.

"Sure, Buffy. Nothing can go wrong. You're just being paranoid. Right. It's never over with the fanged and the restless." The slayer pushed herself onward, gathering momentum until she could run and didn't stop for anything: gravestone, shrubbery, or opossum. Her chest heaved as her lungs struggled for oxygen, and her enhanced sight picked out the small forms of her friends by the starlight, but she was still too far away. Her feet ground up the distance between her them at slayer speed but wasn't enough, couldn't be enough, not when something crooned against her mind -now angry- impatiently and two glowing embers of eyes called to her like a beacon.  
  
She stumbled as her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to get out. Goosebumps rose up along her arms and the wood of her stake creaked in her grip.  No, she thought as the Master's scarred face flashed in her mind, not again. Not now.  
  
The thing took a crossbow bolt to its shoulder. Buffy could see Xander notching another as Oz jumped at the well dressed dead man, she could hear the snarling, and oh, gods above, he was going for the throat. He wasn't even in wolf-boy mode and yet... but he didn't make it. Whoever he was caught Oz's teeth with his forearm and wrenched the werewolf aside only to toss him into a headstone that shattered as her friend's small body impacted. The rubble shifted and Oz crawled out, body low, eyes catching what little light was cast from the sky and glowing eerily as he circled his opponent.  
  
Willow was just sitting there, something dead and silent at her side, and Buffy's pulse pounded in her ears like a war drum. How could it just ignore a cross like that? How strong was it? As strong as the Master? She was almost there!  
  
"Willow! Don't listen to him!" The scream came out raw and that pressure had migrated behind her eyes as those burning brown flames flicked over to see her. Change, they said, give in. Change.  
  
Change what, she wanted to ask, but the wood grain was warm and slick in her hands and her blood rushed around her body and the little killer inside her stood up snarling. She closed the distance, spring-boarded off a convenient grave marker, and twirled her stake as she took aim. Pink light exploded from her best friend, warm and welcome and bright, and as the vampire shielded it's eyes in a panic she struck without conscience or mercy taking them both to the ground.  
  
Vampires in this dimension were far more hardy than back home. For whatever reason, Hellmouth vampires had weak chests when it came to wood or any other living matter. Here, though, cartilage and bones and all sorts of things stood in the way of her and her targeted organ. It took effort and strength to get at that sweet spot. While this change didn't deter her too much, slayer strength being what it was, the extra obstacles would put a damper on any of the efforts of her scoobies to stake a vamp. At least, that's what it would be if they hadn't also discovered another fun fact: stakes soaked in holy water slid through vampire flesh like a hot knife through butter.  
  
He didn't burst into ashes, and her water-gun was out of accelerant, but as the vampire spasmed on the ground twitching and gurgling with blood bubbling up around the chest wound in a continuous hiss Buffy grinned with satisfaction at the blood on her hands. The annoying pressure had stopped. Her body felt normal again, and the slayer within was sated.  
  
But there would be more, there were always more, and she would be there when they came. "Guys?"  
  
Xander was staring at the vampire. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, and Oz was taking slow, ragged breaths while digging his fingers into the grass as if holding on for dear life. The wolf wasn't whimpering in pain or anything so she assumed nothing aside from scenery had been damaged, but then this was the guy who took a bullet to the shoulder and hadn't even screamed. Had he broken something? Did they need to go to a, she hated the thought, hospital? Buffy took a deeper look at the wolf but couldn't see anything wrong. He didn't appear to be about to go fuzzy, and it wasn't the full moon... but she couldn't deny what she saw.  
  
The girl bit her lip and closed her eyes, forcing herself to remain calm. The throat was a perfectly acceptable kill zone on a vampire, and that was _all_ she was going to think about it. Oz wasn't hurting anyone (that didn't deserve it) and they had _just_ gotten him back.  
  
Buffy sighed and debated if she should pull her stake out of the body on the ground. He still gave the occasional twitch, and it creeped her out, so she kept her distance as she moved to the still in shock witch who was cradling the iron pentacle necklace Oz had given her last year. Buffy drew her knife, even though it probably wouldn't be much help, and eyed the zombie that was just sitting there like a bump on a log. Last time she saw zombies they were invading her house and wrecking the furniture while trying to eat her birthday guests' brains. Just another mystery to be piled on her stuff-Buffy-doesn't-want-to-know sundae.  
  
Willow looked fine, though. The necklace was still glowing the soft pink of cotton candy and it was kinda nice. Soothing.  
  
Even with the sickening, meaty background sounds of Xander sawing at the neck of Mr. Wannabe Kidnapper. If they hurried, they could make the 5:15 bus to St. Louis.

 

 

* * *

  
She was a horrible mother. She was in a good place, with music and dancing, drinks and laughter, but all she could think about was that she was a horrible mother. Worst mother of the year. When other, good, moms were taking their kids to gymnastics tournaments and bandaging their knees or helping out in the PTA she was calling old friends, getting the latest in post-modern art, and dating evil robot men. Instead of listening, and Joyce cringed as she finished her drink in a single pull at the memory, she first sends her daughter to a hospital and then completely misses her sneaking out every damn night to do battle with the hordes of hell.  
  
She should never have listened to Hank. Fucking useless coward.  
  
Joyce briefly entertained the idea of marching over to his condo where his little strumpet of a secretary was holed up and dying all his shirts pink. Or some hideous tye-dye pattern. "God. I'm pathetic." She bowed her head and rested it against the cool wood of the bar. Hank wasn't the reason she felt so disgusted with herself. Where other parents had banded together to save their children from the 'gang shooting' she had run away to let her daughter get killed. She was the mother. She was supposed to protect Buffy; not the other way around.  
  
Her daughter wasn't even old enough to drink! Now she never would be.  
  
"Hey there, sugar-plum." The Host said softly and Joyce looked up from her drink into ruby-red eyes. They weren't red from crying and lack of sleep, like her own, but simply red like other people's were blue or brown or green. The artist in her noted the nice contrast his eyes made against the green of his skin, who ever designed his species must have consulted a color-wheel beforehand. "Want to talk about it?"  
  
"No, thank you." Joyce whispered as she plucked the lemon from the side of her mimosa and glanced with tired eyes around the bar. Part of her gave a little thrill and if she didn't know better she would have said she wandered onto the set of Star Wars. Patrons of all shape, size, color, and species filled the bar and some white-blonde woman with three breasts and feathers for hair was crooning into the microphone set up on the stage. Truthfully, her rendition of You Are So Beautiful wasn't that bad.  
  
Failure, Joyce thought miserably, I am made of failure. Failure in being a mother. Failure in being a wife. It hadn't all been Hank's fault, though he did start it, and wasn't that just so immature to start playing the blame game, now? Everyone made mistakes when they were kids: got stupid tattoos, hung out with the wrong crowd, met suave boys in bands... some people just didn't grow out of it.  
  
Joyce sighed as a fresh drink slid over to her, which she accepted with a nod of thanks. Follow a couple of people with _skin conditions_ into a bar with the intent of going out fighting, knowing her skills in basic self-defense skills only came from classes at the Y, to honor her daughter, and she can't even do that right. Instead she ends up in the one place in all of LA where you can't even throw a punch and there's _singing_.  
  
But she had to admit the decor was to die for. Damned her inner artist.  
  
"You sure about that, honey?" Her Host kept on as he propped his chin on his hand. "I haven't seen you around before, and believe me, I would remember bone structure that gorgeous."  
  
The Summers matriarch snorted into her drink causing the thick liquid to bubble. She had to set it down and covered her mouth with her hand. The green man was smiling now, pleased he managed to get some kind of reaction out of her, and Joyce rolled her eyes as she popped the lemon slice into her mouth. Sour, a bit salty, but oh-so-good. "Please, Mr. Host, I'm too old for that kind of talk."  
  
"You? Old? Baby-doll, you got your whole life ahead of you. Why don't you sing me a little something, hmm? First one's free."  
  
Joyce frowned. "I'm not really in the mood for singing, and when I am I sound terrible. No, thanks."  
  
"It's not about the music, sweetie." He gestured vaguely with his hands and lighting changed. Bulbs went a soft blue and he said something to a waitress that looked perfectly normal if you ignored the solid cerulean eyes. He turned back to her and settled onto the bar stool, reaching out and taking her hand in his own hopefully. "It doesn't even have to be a song, per say, just put your soul into it. A little rhythm. Maybe I'll find something in your future to make this whole bad episode not so dark?"  
  
I lost my child, she wanted to say, my only child. There's a big gaping void in my heart where Buffy used to be. My big strong baby girl. My miracle. And it is all my fault she's gone and I'm still here. How can anything make that better?  
  
Looking into those red-red eyes that were filled with love, not love for her -there was no lust in those demon eyes- but an all encompassing care for everything and everyone utterly nonjudgmental and understanding Joyce couldn't find it within herself to snipe at the demon. "I don't have to sing?"  
  
"Harley's got it covered." He answered with a flick of his eyes to the stage where the feathered woman was swaying back and forth. A group of males had gathered around the stage, drooling, and Joyce couldn't stop the laugh that escaped from her mouth. She changed it to a cough at the Host's knowing look and cleared her throat. What harm could it do? If she got a bit of the depression off her chest, maybe she could finally do something right.  
  
"Such happiness you bring..." Harley gyrated, feathers fanning out, and Joyce let her drink work through her system and loosen her up. Joyce knew she couldn't sing worth a damn, being transferred to the bell choir had been a polite if clear message as a child, but it wasn't about notes. Right. Well, she had minored in English, hadn't she? In Memoriam, my dear baby girl... Joyce rocked on her seat as she picked up her cadence.  
  
"I sometimes hold it half a sin, to put in words the grief I feel; for words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the Soul within. But for the unique heart and brain, a use in measured language lies; the sad mechanic exercise, like dull narcotics, numbing pain..." She paused, trying to remember what came next, but as nice as Tennyson was all she could think about was the mustache of her bloated professor quivering while he gestured at the board. Dammit, she couldn't even finish a poem! Joyce collapsed in on herself, clutching her mimosa to her stomach, and her heart ached for the part of her that she had carried within her and watched grow up.  
  
The Host was looking at her as she sat there hanging onto decorum by a thread. Her eyes watered. She wanted her Buffy back. She wanted to hold her baby girl in her arms and tell her that destiny, the world, could go hang. It had been spinning for a billion years, it could keep spinning, all by itself. Except she couldn't. Sunnydale Highschool was now Sunnydale Crater Lake, and how ridiculous that it took three weeks for that information to filter out from the little town? She would never see her little ball of sunshine again.  
  
"Oh, honey." Joyce melted as the man, demon, wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace. His hands were amazingly smooth as they trailed through her hair, and Joyce grabbed onto him like he was the only thing left in the world, causing her drink to spill orange liquid all over the floor, but he either didn't notice or didn't care. She breathed in his scent: the faintest tinge of sulfur beneath a musky cologne. The music and lights had become pinpricks in the distraught woman's awareness. Her hands fisted in the fabric of his suit ruining the designer cut, but he didn't do anything but rock her back and forth. "You'll see your little girl again. You will. You'll get a whole boatload of rugrats to take care of."  
  
Joyce sniffled and looked away from him, embarrassed, and wiped at her tears with the blue silk kerchief he pulled from a breast pocket. "You think so?"  
  
He touched her face delicately, hand coming up just under her chin, and his knowing smile carried more reassurance and security than a thousand tubs of fudge dip mint chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. "I know it."  
  
The demoness on stage continued singing, light and musical, distracting everyone from their little scene at the bar."...A guiding light that shines in the night, heavens gift to me..."


	19. Same Old Song and Dance

The first thing Willow noticed was the soft/hard warmth beneath her cheek and the oh-so-faint smell of burnt pine. She knew the scent well since it was her favorite incense for mediation, as it got her in the earth goddess mindset. It also happened to match the soap Oz liked.  
  
The second thing she noticed were the fingers running through her hair, smoothing it out, and tracing the delicate and highly sensitive tissue of her ear. Willow smiled with a giggle as the questing fingers tickled her into wakefulness and she batted them away. Oz tilted his head down to look at her, lips stretched in a teeth concealing smile, but there was a slight wariness in his eyes. Not of her, certainly, but maybe for her? Mini-Oz wasn't quite as good at drowning his thoughts in calm as big Oz, but then he would be understandably freaked from his noble efforts to take a, quite literal, bite out of crime. It was when the cannibalism became everyday that she had to worry.

"Morning, moonshine." His fingers trailed down her cheek. The witch sighed in contentment and struggled to sit up, rubbing the gunk from the corners of her eyes, and squeaking as the bus hit something that caused them all to experience a brief second of sweet, sweet zero gravity. She went sliding forward, unbalanced, but Oz caught her before her nose could have a personal meet and greet with the back of the next seat.  
  
Seat belts, where art thou?  
  
"Thanks, Oz." Willow whispered as they settled back into their chairs, and she could hear someone crying in the back even over the ancient air conditioners that sat like a great rumbling behemoths over their heads. The scoobies hadn't made the 5:15 bus, and Willow blamed herself for that little delay. It was a hard to think of herself as a bad-ass wicca when she kept accidentally raising zombies, fudging reversal spells, and falling asleep. She really, really hoped she wasn't becoming narcoleptic. The thief-feet spell had gone off without a hitch and there had been no avoiding the whammy that accompanied it, but gathering grave dirt? She'd done it loads of times with no ill effects!  
  
Giles had been the one to show her the little ritual to make sure no unwanted energies attached to the dirt - if she took something from a grave site that the owner didn't want taken there could be some major bad penalties in karma and luck. So why had Mrs. Potter popped out of the ground? When the rush of the magic wore off, half-way to the transit station, the littlest witch had dropped as though just coming down from a triple shot double mocha express latte while getting a hit to the head with a baseball bat. And good goddess, had she been sore. Her every joint ached as if she had been the one to crawl out of the ground, and the nick on her finger throbbed worse than any paper cut.

Willow eyed the thin red line of skin.  
  
They ended up asking the nice zombie lady to go back to sleep, because Willow had no clue what one did with zombies. Xander suggested taking her head with a mailbox. Oz had simply stared at the raised woman thoughtfully and kept muttering about spices. Buffy wasn't sure what to do about a friendly monster: Mrs. Potter hadn't tried to eat them or -and sometimes Willow wondered where Xander got these ideas- bake a cake. So, polite request it was. Mrs. Potter's rheumy eyes had blinked at her, ignoring everyone else, then reached out and stroked her cheek like a doting grandmother.  
  
Willow shuddered at the memory of dead-and-decomposing fingers brushing against her skin. The whole thing had been plain ooky without cold flesh petting her, but the zombie had been surprisingly gentle as words rasped out of its dry and disused throat. Darling. A dark intelligence had burned in undead eyes when it spoke and headed over to the disturbed earthen tomb. Darling, as the dark haired woman's neck lolled as if broken toward the headless vampire that had been reduced to a silhouette of shadow in the starlight. Darling.  
  
Was that supposed to mean something to her? To them? So many questions, not enough answers, and Willow had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that the answers available weren't ones she wanted to hear. Willow sighed and went back to picking at her fingernails. Dust and blood were caked on and she longed for a good scrub. Even though the red head slept through most of it, Buffy and the boys managed to get on the 6:45 to Jefferson City. It wasn't St. Louis, they would need to either stow-away again or make a transfer, but Harrisonville was becoming a little too hot for them.  
  
Not that St. Louis was much better, but they had a mess to clean up. Willow idly rubbed the smooth iron of her pentacle necklace, now looped around her wrist as a makeshift bracelet, between her thumb and forefinger.  
  
"Hey." Oz's voice had something of low, almost inaudible rumble to it. Willow was leaning against his side, tucked under an arm, and when she closed her eyes she could feel the Other. It was rough, but not dangerous. Not to her. "You alright, baby?"  
  
"Hmmm." Willow responded as she wiggled deeper into the werewolf. She faintly heard fake-gagging coming from behind them. She wrinkled her nose as if insulted. "You're just jealous."  
  
"Please. I've completely sworn off women. Your gender is incomprehensible." Xander paused. "And you have cooties."  
  
Cooties? He was arguing about cooties? Willow whirled in her chair, ignoring the warning grumble from the bus driver. "You didn't think we had cooties when you stole my Barbie! Thief!"  
  
Oz snorted and shared glanced at Buffy, who rolled her eyes and went back to staring out a window, stake twirling absently in her hand. "I prefer dashing rogue." Xander drawled with what Willow assumed was his attempt at a British accent. "Harris. Xander, Harris."  
  
"You stole her, barbie?" The werewolf asked with mirth as his girlfriend glared at him. Barbies were no laughing matter, and gosh darn it how did Angel keep up the brooding in the face of all this treachery?  
  
"Hey!" Willow rolled her shoulders and sat up, brushing mussed hair from her face. "I'll have you know it was a very popular, very valuable, cross-country biker barbie with bend-y elbows and knee joints! I was the envy of the entire second grade! Well... until Xander took it and his dad accidentally set her on fire..." At the stunned, embarrassed in the case of Xander, silence Willow blushed. "I still don't know how that happened. Though, come to think of it, lots of things tended to burn around your house. That's why mom wouldn't let me come over anymore."  
  
"You know." Buffy spoke slowly from her nest of bags by the window. "I'm starting to think you guys patrolling with me was actually safer than whatever it was you did before I got to Sunnydale."  
  
Xander grinned, but it wasn't happy. A show of teeth rather than an expression of joy. Willow held Oz tighter. "You should have seen Uncle Rory during the Christmas reunion of '93. Him, liberally spiked eggnog, and knives are very unmix-y things. Never knew taxidermists had such good throwing arms." He shrugged. "But I gotta say, he wasn't that bad. Promised to sell me the car he was fixing up for my post-graduation road trip. If I was still alive and all."  
  
And on that depressing note, Willow smiled her own not happy grin and reached across the isle to give her friend a pat. "Well, we've certainly been traveling around enough to count as a road trip, right? And we're a foursome instead of a threesome."  
  
"Got that right." Buffy grumbled as she pressed her feet into the back of the chair in front of her. The Slayer hated being cooped up for hours in cramped spaces, she needed to run, to jump, to move around. Oz got like that sometimes before his time of the month.  
  
Willow touched the comforting cold of the pentacle and sat back in her chair. Watching trees and field slowly turn into an urban sprawl, she stared out the window. Things would work out. After they slayed the baddie, maybe they could pull a Kendra and stow-away on the back of a plane and head to Jamaica? It would be cheaper, though probably not very comfortable, but there were probably all sorts of voodoo people she could look up to help her with undead issues.  
  
Actually, now that she had time to properly process, Mrs. Potter was kind of cool. Willow giggled and stuffed a fist to her mouth to muffle it. She wondered if she could do it again. Using the undead to fight the undead... would that be poetic, or what?

 

* * *

  
Stanton was only about an hour's drive from St. Louis, give or take traffic conditions. Anita could remember driving through the town on the fifth-grade weekend field trip, one she had to beg her father's permission to take, and how much she had enjoyed wading in the Meramac and following the hiking trails. She had a feeling those warm-fuzzy memories were about to be torn limb from limb and pissed on by a not so warm-fuzzy shadow-lurking bad guy. Mary, the day time secretary, had called her from Animator's Inc about the emergency consultation, but it hadn't been for RPIT.  
  
It had been Animal. Freaking. Control.  
  
So why, as she flashed her still shiny new badge to a perimeter guard and rolled her jeep on up into the parking lot for the Riverside Reptile Ranch, were there the familiar light becrowned vehicles of the police? Shouldn't they have called her, if she was needed? What kind of big-ass alligator needed the high sheriff and the police?  
  
Probably the kind that had an extreme aversion to silver, Anita thought grimly. At the moment she could think of three things she would rather be doing than driving out to the tourist trap of a town: sleeping, hunting down unethical medical practitioners, and cleaning her guns. No, that was not a euphemism.  
  
Anita shifted into park with an irritated glance at another familiar car and the non-regulation mess of takeout boxes, Big Gulps, and candy bar wrappers that spilled over the backseat. She slammed her door, successfully announcing her presence to a small gathered crowd of crime scene investigators and lookie-lous, and stalked to the center of the commotion. Cops could at times be more territorial than shifters and the scene unfloding, if not the players, was one she was familiar with. Luckily, no one had pulled their guns and from what she could tell they were all safely tucked away in their holsters.  
  
Zebrowski was small compared to the guy he was confronting, and the look on his face almost caused the hardened vampire executioner to stall. His eyes, normally lit with some hidden joke no matter how dark the situation, were burning embers of anger. His hair was messier than usual, and instead of looking like he had simply gotten dressed in the dark his clothing appeared wrinkled enough to have been slept in. It probably was. Some instinctual knowledge flickered within Anita as she approached, at a slower and more cautious pace, and she could see the tension in her friend's shoulders as though he wanted to punch the other officer in the face.  
  
If he did, Anita wasn't sure who she was going to be backing.

  


"Detective Zebrowski," See, she could do calm and reasonable. "Did he bite his thumb at you, or something?" Her voice came out slightly more tight than intended, and her arms were crossed over her chest placing her right hand by the butt of her Browning. Just in case.  
  
The second-in-command of RPIT seemed to shrink in on himself, all that rage sloughing off like a snake shedding its skin, and Anita found herself blinking at the thought. Zebrowski stepped away from the uniformed officer and turned just enough to give her one of those lazy, good natured smiles, but there was something in that bearing of teeth, in the tension gathered at the corner of his eyes, that remained angry and predatory. It wasn't like him. It was wrong. Her fingers touched the handle of her gun, ready to pull it, mindful of the civilians wandering around like so many meat shields, and waited.  
  
"Hiya, Anita." He jerked his thumb at the Stanton cop. "Me and Officer Bart here were simply discussing the merits of fine dining."  
  
Dining. Right. Why did she have the feeling that knuckle sandwiches were the main course?  
  
"What's going on? I got a call an hour ago, notably not from you, to run my butt down here." Anita gestured at the many vehicles in the parking lot. "Where's Dolph?" Zebrowski blinked and his eyes darted subconsciously over to the door of the rough wooden building that was the Triple R. Anita heard the air conditioner give a cough and start to hum as it went into overdrive in the afternoon heat.  
  
"Anita." Officer Bart drawled as he shifted his weight, hooking one thumb on a belt loop and, she assumed, eying her from behind a set of reflective sunglasses. He ran his other hand through his short brown hair, and it may have been a little egotistical but the small woman imagined he was undressing her with his eyes. She was used to being the only female around a crime scene, but she was a Federal Marshal, now, and she would be damned if she was going to put up with this macho bullshit. "As in Anita Blake, Vampire Executioner?"  
  
Anita gave him her sweetest smile, and didn't mean any of it. "Among other things." Zebrowski laughed long, loud, and hard. Bart frowned, shifting on his feet, and dust motes floated around like an angry cloud.  
  
"Is that a threat?"  
  
"Only the facts, now is someone going to tell me why the hell I've been called out here or am I going to have to start pulling rank?" Anita reached into her jacket pocket for the badge she'd used to get past the guard. Bart's lips pressed together causing chapped and pale skin to go even whiter with distaste. He was far from happy with her presence, and Anita's gut was telling her it was more to it than the simple fact she was a woman. Officer Bart didn't seem to have a chip the size of Alaska riding on his shoulder, and a glance his gun revealed it to be a plain non-compensating service piece. So why was he trying to keep her out? "I could ask those oh-so-convenient civilians that are getting their statements taken?"  
  
Bart spun around, calloused hand gesturing to follow as he spat tobacco into the dust. Classy. Wooden planks creaked at their passing and Anita closed on Zebrowski with an annoyed and questioning look. Zebrowski was one of the few men that while tall, didn't tower over her. She could see his hand flexing as he attempted to get blood circulating again. Crisis averted. Barely. "I wanted to call you, but they said no. Said the FBI already had it covered, how did you know we were here?"  
  
"Animal control." Anita sighed. It sounded silly even to her; mighty and feared vampire hunter being called in for an assist on pest control. Zebrowski's eyebrows lifted in surprise and his lips twitched. Anita narrowed her eyes, she could practically see the Crocodile Hunter comment forming in his head, and jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow before he could say it. "No comment from you."  
  
The door to the main building of the reptile ranch had a metal brass handle sitting innocently in a sunbeam, and nearly burned her hand when Anita turned it. A bad start to a day in an already bad week, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. She considered turning around and grabbing her short-sword, the replacement spine sheath hadn't come in yet, but pushed the thought to the side. If three magazines worth of bullets and a brace of silver knives wasn't enough to handle things, the extra reach probably wouldn't help all that much. Besides, at the moment they were just talking bureaucracy. If the FBI had already set up shop that gave her enough wriggle room to make as many waves as she needed.  
  
The inside of the building hadn't changed a bit since the decade or so since she last came through filled with dreams and naivete. The walls were decorated with pictures of the reptilian inmates while the floor was covered with typical touristy booths and the occasional animal cage. A glass display case held two large lizards, iguanas, and above her head a wicker fan whirled around in lazy circles and as she walked around a shelf bearing pamphlets and coloring books there was the welcome sight of Rudolf Storr. He was heatedly discussing what Anita assumed to be the case with a man that screamed Federal Agent from his short and styled hair down to his polished wing-tips.  
  
"While I appreciate your help with the St. Peters case, this is a Federal Matter. We believe this to be the work of a serial murderer we've been tracking for months, and not your jurisdiction." Agent Mystery spoke in a voice so cold Anita was surprised icicles weren't forming on his nose. Officer Bart went to lean against a shelf of turtle figurines just behind the agent making his allegiance clear... but again he didn't seem too thrilled about it. There was another deputy coming in through a backdoor, rubbing at the back of his neck, and he looked like he wasn't sure if he would be puking or not.  
  
Dolph's eyes were hard and unreadable as he spoke. "Agent Moss," Agent Moss showed no reaction, but something about him told Anita that he wanted to be gone. That he was annoyed. That someone somewhere had messed up. She smelled a cover-up, and the freshly scrubbed down halls of the safe house blared brightly in her mind. "To be frank, and with all due respect, you have no idea what you are dealing with."  
  
"Piers Adamson is dead. Unless you plan to tell me that-" Moss cut off as his eyes, and Anita swallowed back a gasp at eyes that were as cold and empty as the desert at night. "Miss Blake, here, has gained the ability to resurrect in addition to animating the dead, the matter is closed." His tone changed to something an adult would say to a particularly annoying child, go run along now. Mummy will take care of it.  
  
"Well, then, you won't mind if I take a look. Just to sooth my own mind, of course." Anita broke in as she stepped up beside Dolph. They had to squeeze by a table covered in folk art shaped like animals, but her and Zebrowski made a respectable pair of human bookends if she did say so herself.  
  
Agent Moss turned those cold eyes on Officer Bart, who gave a halfhearted shrug, and then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. He closed his eyes, shook his head, tensed his shoulders, then laughed. "...alright. Fine. But it doesn't change anything. You're chasing ghosts, Detective Storr."  
  
Maybe she was feeling a little protective of her cops, but something decidedly feral rumbled up from her chest and out her throat before she could stop it. "It's Sergent Storr, Agent."  
  
He jumped, as if seeing her for the first time, and Anita swallowed back the rumble that nearly vibrated out of her chest. Those weren't human eyes staring at her, no, there was something cold and reptilian gleaming darkly trying to pick her apart. "Sergent." Anita blinked, and it was gone. Nothing but a neutral coolness remained as Moss took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and slid them on. "If you'll follow me?"

They did.  
  


The deputy chose to sit things out in the nice cool air conditioning, but Anita, Dolph, Zebrowski, Moss, and Bart all trooped back out into the hot summer sun made worse by their proximity to the Meramac River. Agent Moss had been against it at first, but Anita hadn't even had to argue after stating she felt more comfortable with her own people. So what if he maybe assumed Dolph and Zebrowski were temporarily deputized: they had done the same for her plenty of times in the past. Tit for tat, and all that. The ground was a hard dry dust where sun managed to strike it, but most of the earth was only a step away from bog territory. Anita slapped at a mosquito and waved off a cloud of gnats as they crossed a paint-chipped bridge and headed off on a footpath into bushes and weeds. Perfect time for an ambush.  
  
What could only be described as bad ju-ju prickled at the back of her neck and Anita surreptitiously reached behind her back for a quicker draw on the Firestar. "If you throw up, aim for the water." Bart helpfully drawled in his slow, southern accent as he held a moss covered branch out of the way. Anita gasped. Mistake.  
  
The taste of hot, warm blood and piss hit her tongue. She gagged on it as that echo of animal within her sat up, sniffing, and she stepped away from the body to reign in her control. "Anita?" Dolph asked, concerned. She shook her head and stepped forward again, forcing herself to look at it. It. A woman, once, girl really. Brown roots showed through the blonde almost white dye job and green eyes stared ahead, frozen in pain. A metal spike of some kind went through her hands, and her mouth was sewn shut.  
  
Anita wanted to cry, but she'd used up all her tears for the month. She knelt near the body, her jeans soaking up mud rather than blood for a change, and reached out to the strips of skin that had been peeled back. There was something academic about it. A dull knife, maybe, had cut through the dermis to the muscle and then carefully peeled back the skin to reveal tendons and joints, pinning it back with what might have been syringe needles as though she were some high school biology experiment, but this wasn't a frog. It was a person. Had been a person. Now it was an it. If she gave her, it, a past the horror would multiply and she was having enough trouble sleeping as things were. Richard hadn't heard back from his contacts in Kansas, yet. "When did you find it?"  
  
Moss said nothing. It was Officer Bart who answered. "This morning. She is, was, camping with her boyfriend over at the Caverns. Didn't bring back breakfast, boyfriend got worried, but you know... not a missing person just because you miss the dinner bell." Anita clenched her hands in the grass, slick from the humidity, and forced herself to think. A bug buzzed past her ear and sweat trickled down her neck. "We were kind of busy getting a couple of drunk frat boys to calm down."  
  
A pair of gloves came out of her fanny pack as she felt Dolph crouch down beside her to look at the body himself. There was something comforting and familiar about his bulk so close to hers. He was a professional that didn't care about territory. Dolph cared about saving lives and catching the bad guys, and if he thought he knew what was taking apart little girls... Anita was more inclined to listen to his opinion than the alternative agenda of the agent she only just met.  
  
"Frat boys?" Zebrowski asked with the spongy ground giving under his feet while he walked. At least they were all wearing boots and Nikes. Well, except for Moss. Anita hoped he got stuck with the mother of all cleaning bills.  
  
Bart snorted as if in amusement. "Yeah. Came in saying they saw a walking, talking, lizard-man robbing the refreshment stand. Probably just broke in after-hours and saw Zeus swimming around." Anita felt it was a safe bet he wasn't talking about the Greek god. She leaned forward, covered fingers ghosting by the stretched and tender flesh, and touched the chin searching for the usual signs of a vampire attack. She didn't think it was vampires, vampires killed or tortured but didn't dissect, but it was best to cover all the bases. Nothing like missing the obvious and having it come back to bite you on the ass later.  
  
Anita moved to tilt the head to the side, and froze. "Oh, God." Her eyes widened, and she focused her senses, praying she was right but hoping she wasn't... there. A brief trembling, like the beat of a butterfly wing. It was faint and weak yet... "She's alive! I got a pulse!"  
  
Behind her, Anita could hear the dull sound of a fist hitting a face as what felt like an inferno of rage lit where Dolph had been squatting, Zebrowski yelling for help as he simultaneously drew his gun and reached for a phone, but all she could think about was the not-it laying half dead and getting closer by the second as she drew a silver knife from her forearm and cut the wire keeping the girl's mouth shut. A strangled gasp escaped from that abused mouth, and as the bottle blonde head lolled to the side Anita saw the bloody letters engraved on the back of her neck. Neat. Precise.  
  
Ester.

* * *

  
Xander wasn't sure which he hated more: ancient Sumerian, or microfiche. It was a toss-up, really. On the one hand, an endless flow of pictures that, to him at least, had nothing to do with the phrase/word/sound they signified. Microfiche, on the other end of the spectrum, was perfectly understandable English. But it was tiny. And he had to stare into the stupid machine to read it all, which burned yellow light into his eyeballs like an angry if impotent sun.  
  
"At least it's not fucking cuneiform." Xander grumbled as he hit the button and switched to the next page. During the whole Judge incident in Junior year he had, somehow, gotten saddled with checking Giles' Mesopotamian texts, also known as decorative paper-weights in some circles, for clues on how to defeat Papa Smurf. He had never quite recovered.  
  
"Hmm?" His werewolf buddy peaked out from behind a newspaper. The other boy was sitting balanced on a step-stool, feet propped up against a desk and back pressed into the book shelves, with a slight quirk to his lips. "Did you say something."  
  
Oh. Yes. Oz was enjoying Xander's pain, he certainly was, and Xander greatly disliked him for it. Stupid Zen master and his all-knowing-ness. "I've checked records up through a hundred years ago, and there's no record of a swamp thing popping up and attacking people." He paused as Oz brought his feet down and folded his paper to set it on the pile with all the other full-size, not eye watering small periodicals he'd been looking through. "There's the occasional rogue shifter, which, by-the-by it's still legal to hunt without a warrant in some states so lets stay out of Oregon, but nothing that looks like our troll."  
  
He didn't mention the pictures of the last witch burning he found. Last _official_ witch burning. Xander had no doubt that somewhere out there others had happened, with the cops turning a blind eye, while unpopular people conveniently went missing. It reminded him of seeing Willow, Willow who still felt bad about all the vampire slayings even though she knew they were demonic scumbags, tied up as her own mother lit the pyre.  
  
There was something about photographs of the burning process that made it so much more horrible than old woodcuts in Giles' books had made it look. Maybe it was because it was so easy to see the black-and-white images in color; the woman with red hair, or blonde. Xander sighed and absently flicked the off switch of the projector. They didn't need to know all the gory details. Not on that.  
  
Oz shrugged. "Could be something new."  
  
"When has it not been older than dirt?" Xander pushed away from the machine and rested his forehead on the desk, eyes closed to let them recover. With the hum of florescent lights, the familiar and comforting smell of paper and ink, and the nice dry clean environment of the library, he rather felt it appropriate to indulge in one of his favorite library activities.  
  
Nap time.  
  
"I'm not a freak!"  
  
Or not.  
  
An exited, high-pitched voice accompanied by the soft ripple of skirt fabrics announced the return of the girls. "I'm not a freak!"  
  
"Of course you aren't." Oz stated as Willow bounced around them, and Xander could smell the coffee on her, attracting the bemused attention of a couple studying students. "And even if you were, you would be the cutest freak of them all. The queen freak."  
  
Buffy set several books and magazines on the desk by the machine. "I'm just glad there's no African Masks involved."  
  
"Or juvenile delinquents out to blow up the school." Xander added as he glanced at the new pile of literature in mild horror. More reading? He wondered why prophecies and rituals couldn't be written in an easy-to-follow and visually enticing comic-book format.  
  
"Been there, done that. Got the scars to show for it." Willow visibly stopped and forced herself to calm down as she continued in her six-inch inside voice. "See. I think I'm what they call an animator."

Xander's interest peaked as Willow held up a back issue of some magazine with a pale guy on it and a gravestone in the background. The title of the magazine, The Animator, was spread across the top in a script reminiscent of that used by The Rolling Stone. "I found it when I was looking up spontaneous zombies in the catalog, and there's a whole section in the back where readers send in embarrassing first-zombie stories."  
  
She flipped the pages and began reading, "Dear Sam," she glanced up. "That's the editor. Dear Sam, my mother was absolutely horrified when my animating ability manifested. I got it from grandfather, who at the time of the incident my mother was not speaking to, and ended up bringing back my best friend's cat that we buried out in the meadow behind the house. Tyler, the cat, was in such good condition that we didn't notice at first that she was a zombie. My friend and I were able to keep her for three months afterward by feeding her a diet of cow's blood that we drained from hamburger meat, of course by the second month she smelled horrible and had lost nearly all her fur." Willow finished with a beaming smile.  
  
Xander couldn't help but respond with one of his own. "Cow's blood. It's what's for dinner."  
  
"Yeah. He goes on to talk about how much the magazine has helped him reconnect with his own family, especially his grandpa." She shook her head. "The point is, I'm not a freak! There's lots of people here that can make zombies and do magic, enough to have their own magazine anyway, and if they have a magazine, it must be okay! They've even got tips on what kind of blades to use when making a ritual sacrifice!"  
  
"Which we will not be doing." Buffy interrupted. "No killing of innocent bunnies, or goats, or whatever. We can't afford to send our clothes to the dry cleaners just so you can get an A on a history report."  
  
Xander turned a chuckle into a cough. That sounded exactly like the thing Willow would do.  
  
"We aren't even in school! We graduated!" Willow hissed, offended on behalf of nerds everywhere.  
  
Buffy's face was a blank mask, and her reply came out in a deadpan. "You would find a way."  
  
Their witch blushed, and sat down on the ground while pressing her back into a bookshelf as though trying to become one with the stacks. Oz offered his step-stool come chair to the blonde slayer, and then went to sit by Willow. Buffy perched on the black rolling stool, causing it to squeak as springs in desperate need of oiling protested, and flung an arm out toward the mess of newspapers, bestiaries, and encyclopedias. "You guys find out anything about Jack?"  
  
"Jack? Wait, this thing has a name? And no one told me?!" Xander almost, almost screeched, but then he remembered the wrath of the librarian at the last second and his words came out in an indignant hiss. When you spend three years with a librarian that can throw knives from across the room and not look up from his tea, you tend to tread softly around the book-inclined. Especially during final exam week.  
  
"No." Buffy backtracked, waving her hands. "I just thought we needed something other than 'swamp-thing from under the bridge'."  
  
"Ah." Oz nodded. "As in, we don't know jack about this thing."  
  
"Or," Willow piped up, having been warmed by the sweet nothings he whispered into her ear. "On account of we didn't realize it escaped, Jack-in-the-Box."  
  
"And it is attacking women." Xander decided to throw in his two cents. "Like Jack the Ripper." He immediately regretted his comment as Buffy's eyes dimmed, and he noticed she was, once again, holding her pig in lou of a nice, comforting, but annoyingly outlawed stake. Their bags had been left at one of the campus rent-a-lockers where you pay a quarter and get a key, but she had taken out the pig before closing hers, and so to aid in her little-girl-dragged-to-mommy's-school look. Right.  
  
"I miss Giles. He'd already know what this was, or at least where to look." The slayer half-whispered as she bent her head causing her hair fall around her face, concealing it. "I want it dead. I want it dead yesterday."  
  
"While I can't tell you what, exactly, the baddie is," Oz leaned forward and stretched, fingers groping at the desk, until he hit the edge of rolled up paper and caused it to fall to the ground and into his reach. Willow perked up, all forgiven, as her eyes shined with interest. "I did find a pattern to its hits, assuming that all these people saw the same thing and aren't hallucinating." The scoobies giggled. Good old Sunnydale syndrome. "Jack seems to be getting around through the waterways. Rivers, streams, larger sewer systems, which supports the whole swamp-thing look he's got going."  
  
Oz unrolled his butcher paper -And where had he gotten that? Did he mug an art major or something?- to show off a, while not perfect, extremely well done map of the eastern portion of the state with highlighted places where kills or attacks had been reported. Based on the map, the thing seemed to be slowly expanding its hunting ground while sticking relatively close to the major rivers. Most locations looked like they were within monster-sprinting distance of a get-away river.  
  
"This is good." Xander muttered as the military man within him gave a golf clap.  
  
"This is nothing." Willow bragged on her boyfriend, one hand resting possessively on his shoulder, "You should see him with a drivers license and thirty spare minutes at Kinko's."  
  
Xander's eyes widened as he looked at the werewolf in a new light. "Dude."  
  
The werewolf shrugged. "How did you think the Dingo's managed to get into all the clubs we played at?"  
  
"Boys!" Buffy called with an eye roll. "Oz's questionable skills later. Slayage suggestions now."  
  
"Steak through the heart?"  
  
"Not a vampire."  
  
"Might not have the heart in the chest. I read that Pyleans have it in their butt."  
  
"Can I say ew?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Ewwww."  
  
"Oh! Cut off its head... but pyleans won't die from that either. And it's green. Pyleans are green."  
  
"Kill it with fire." Oz suggested. "Unless, being a water-monster it is immune to fire."  
  
"Smash it with a hammer!"  
  
Buffy was playing with General Gordo's front hooves making him dance across the map. She looked up and glared at a twenty-something college student who was staring at them from behind his glasses. She snarled. "What are you looking at?!"  
  
He jumped, swallowed, and buried his head back into his advanced physics textbook.  
  
"I hope he fails..." Buffy muttered. He had been staring at them like they were crazy or something. "So, to sum up we have possible stab and slash, burning is out as we don't have enough funds for more fuel, or pounding into paste?"  
  
The scoobies nodded confirmation to their leader. "Okay. Now how do we find him? This is a big area." So saying she tapped Oz's map. At least two of the marked kill zones were over the border in Illinois.  
  
Xander flopped down on his stomach, feet in the air, and tilted his head. "He seems to go for blondes. And while he doesn't appear to care about an audience, he tries for out-of-the-way places. Like that lake house, and the bridge, though the last might have been a fluke. Also, night attacks." He grinned, teeth and eyes glinting in the off-white light of the library basement. "So, Buffy. How good are you at playing bait? Need any pointers? I got plenty of experience!"

* * *

  
The blood district was filled with a low-key humming energy so close to sunset. The vampires weren't up and around, the namesake of the area, but everybody else was getting ready for a night of paid debauchery. Jason bounced into Guilty Pleasures with his usual sex-pet energy as he waved to one of the wererats that was working the front until Buzz woke up to assume bouncer duty. The sun was still in the red painted sky, shaking its metaphysical finger at all good little vampires, but the club still needed to be ready to open. Jason headed past a set of crushed-velvet drapes for the changing room and peeled off his day wear, a pair of skin tight black jeans and a fishnet shirt, before heading to the costume booth. He felt a little bad for whomever got stuck with appetizer duty for the Master, but after last night's meal he was just glad it wasn't him.  
  
Jean-Claude was a sexual being, massive understatement, and it made being fed off of an extremely enjoyable experience; even more so than the usual vampire magic made it. Jason had played morning wake-up snack to almost every vampire in the kiss and had once been so bored he made a chart comparing the various levels of happy-place each vampire could take him to and how addicting it was (not that he would ever show anyone, he didn't have a death wish), because it _was_ addicting in its own way. It wasn't hard to see why so many people became renfields. The Rush was simply that good. You could be having your hands and feet cut off, but as long as those teeth were in your neck you could not care less.  
  
Still, even if he admitted to being a teeny-tiny bit addicted, to happily bear the title Pomme de Sang, he had guarded the knowledge that if push came to shove he could leave. Not that he would. Jean-Claude, had, in his own sneaky way found him when he needed someone to take care of him. Had plucked him out of a pack that was terrified of itself and gave him a home all for the price of obedience and a few sips of blood. The Master of the City had been his rock when he was dropped practically without warning into the world of the supernatural and became his protector when he desperately needed one. Jason owed Jean-Claude, and so he would stand by him.  
  
But last night, when he stared into glowing blue eyes and felt the familiar pleasure-pain of fangs sinking into his skin and drawing blood, wallowing in the feel of floating in sex and safety, there had been more. Instead of caressing and holding, cold hands gripped like bars of ice and on some other level amidst the rush Jason had known that things had changed. There was a possessiveness about it, now. Jean-Claude's temper was incredibly short, and he was reaching out and affirming his control on everything like... like... Jason didn't know. The closest he could think of was Scrooge counting his money before Christmas, but unlike Scrooge Jean-Claude threw around money like confetti. Now, if people were money, the comparison almost fit.  
  
Jason stared at the various costumes as he fingered the choker modeled after a dog collar he had put on in the morning. It had been a gift, and that was a real gold tag dangling from it, but now it seemed... more. There was more meaning and symbolism in the accessory than the playful teasing he had always attributed to it. In all things, he is mine. That was Jean-Claude had said. What, Jason now realized, he had meant.  
  
Strangely, the blond wolf wasn't sure if it bothered him or not.  
  
Vanilla wafted to his nose accompanied by a slight wet tang of a jungle. Nathaniel was nice, if a total doormat, and in another place and time they could have been best friends. Except Nate worshiped the ground Anita spat on, and Jason would always be firmly in Jean-Claude's camp. The gold on the choker tellingly reflected in the full length mirror by the costume closet. "Hiya, Nate."  
  
"Hello. Rose and Keith are almost done setting up the tables." Nathaniel bobbed his head and began pawing through costumes. Jason was feeling rather anxious. He tried to hide his disquiet behind a grin, but Nathaniel was very good at discerning other people's moods. He'd had to be. For him, it had once meant his survival. "Are you okay?" The wereleopard asked hesitantly.  
  
"I'm great!" Jason beamed and dived into the clothes debating over a pirate outfit that reminded him of his Master and a roman gladiator type thing. "Everyone is just really tense right now, you know?" He dived again, this time picking a black thong that he knew went with a jacket and gunslinger belt. "It's like a contagious disease."  
  
"They shouldn't worry." Nathaniel was much more sedate as he picked through the available outfits, but with hair like his he had a smaller selection choice. "The kids can take care of themselves."  
  
"Oh?" Sure, the little wolf was a fucking force of nature. Jason shuddered at the sensory memory that played along his tongue. Blood and ash. Wild and untamed power focused with, Jason had thought, unbelievable precision. The kid was a kid, but his wolf was old. Older than it had any right to be and stronger than, here Jason was just guessing because he still didn't know if Richard had ever gone full-out against anyone as the man clung to his humanity like a drowning victim, his Ulfric. It wouldn't surprise him if one or all of the other children were harboring even more impossibilities. It would certainly explain Jean-Claude's near maniac, for him anyway, obsession with getting them back. "Do tell."  
  
Nathaniel stilled, eyes seeing something Jason couldn't, hands forgetting the white silk they were holding, hair spilling around naked flesh like a blanket of wine. "The girl is... scary. The blonde one." He blinked and glanced down, submissive, curling in on himself simply from a brief memory. "I didn't feel her. At all. Nothing. I saw her, I thought I could talk to her. Convince her that it was going to be okay, that Anita and everyone would take care of them, but then she hit me and..." Violet eyes blinked and bored into Jason's. "...I thought I was going to die."  
  
He then looked away again as he slipped into his shirt. Jason nodded and thought. Blood and Ash. Slavering howls. "I know what you mean."  
  
"No. You don't." Nathaniel whirled, and for a moment there was absolutely nothing submissive about the wereleopard. "I didn't feel her. Not 'I didn't notice her power', not 'she wasn't anything to worry about', not 'her eyes scared the shit out of me'. I. Did. Not. Feel. Her. There was nothing. Until she touched me, skin on skin, she read as a human, not even a sensitive. A null. But when she did touch me... just for an instant... my beast was terrified. It wanted to run far, far away. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything but wait for her to kill me." As he neared the end of his rant he descended into a hushed whisper, head down as he stared at his feet.  
  
The werewolf licked his lips, nervous. "Dr. Lillian didn't say anything like that." Jean-Claude hadn't said anything like that. He had heard whispers of something called a daughter of death, but he had assumed it had something to do with Anita's assassin buddy. It wasn't like anyone was volunteering information on it, and questions were a way of drawing unwanted attention to yourself.  
  
Nathaniel blinked. "Doctors wear gloves." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
Jason swallowed and headed out into the club proper to help with wiping down tables and arranging pillows. Only thirty minutes to opening.  
  
He forgot to take off the collar.

* * *

  
The victim's name was Emily Jacobs, and she was in the intensive care unit. There was some debate among the hospital staff if it would be more merciful to load her up on morphine, place her in a quiet room, and wait for her to drift off into eternity. Anita ran her hand through her mass of curls and leaned against the grungy wall of the convenience store she was hiding out at. The heap big vampire hunter was supposed to be at the Stanton police station to help interview and give her view on things, but listening to those... _men_... argue the points and jurisdiction... she had to get out and get some breathing room. In her own, non-professional opinion, Dolph had been completely reasonable in his bloodying of Agent Moss' nose.  
  
With lycanthropes she could shoot them when they pissed her off, a warning shot anyway, and out of a sense of self-preservation they backed off. Anita had been wanting to empty her entire clip, expensive silver ammunition or no, into the Agent's face. It was his blustering that had left the girl out there, so much wasting, slowly cooking meat, when she should have been in the hospital. Had anyone even bothered checking to see if she was still alive when they found her?  
  
Skin peeled back, blood soaking the ground, eyes blank and mercifully turned off to the pain, Anita could see why whoever found her would think she was dead. By all rights a human should have died from the shock and blood loss if nothing else.  
  
Anita closed her eyes, leaned her head against the gray brick building, and let her hand drift over the mass of scar tissue that was her collarbone and down her arm. There was a damn good chance Emily Jacobs just bought her ticket into the non-human club, and it was the kind of ticket that didn't come with refunds. Her boyfriend was alternating between hysteria and disgust. He had even asked if it was possible to euthanize her, put her out of her misery, and only a few years ago the Executioner would have agreed with him.  
  
With poison from a lamia flowing through her veins, causing internal bleeding and worse, she'd rather have bleed out than become a shifter. Rather died than bind herself even closer to a vampire. But the decision had been made for her, and there was no going back.  
  
Now, the thought of loosing either of them nearly sent her into hysterics. She still didn't let Jean-Claude feed off of her, but everything else... he was wearing her down with love and kindness, understanding, and she had no defenses against an assault such as that. He was a magnificent, gorgeous, sneaky, French bastard.  
  
Miss Jacobs was very likely going to be some kind of therianthrope if she survived the night. She was under guard in case her attacker learned of her survival and decided to finish the job. Anita really should head back over to the hospital, and make sure everyone knew what they were dealing with copy-cat or no. Anita pushed off the wall, tossed her styrofoam coffee cup into a trash bin, and headed back over to her jeep. Gravel crunched under her black Nikes. It was late, she could hear various bugs gossiping at the lamp-lights around the gas station, and she jumped as a high-pitched screech from her beeper let her know someone was trying to call her.  
  
Pulse pounding, she angled toward where a pair of pay-phones sat next to a massive freezer by the corner of the building. Fishing her beeper out of her fanny-pack, she felt her eyes widen at the number displayed. Unless there was something he hadn't told her, the Executioner thought he would still be recuperating from his run in with the wrong end of a stake.  
  
The animator cradled the phone between shoulder and ear as she slipped quarters into the phone and waited for the dial tone to connect. Maybe Jason was right, and she did need to get out of the dark ages of technology. Even Jean-Claude had a cell phone, and he was at least 400 years old. There was a blur of tones, numbers dialing, and finally she worked through the menu to get at her answering machine.  
  
"Anita." A soft, serious, and devoid of all accent voice came through the phone line. Something stung her neck, startling her and she almost dropped the phone. "It's Edward. We need to talk," Anita frowned, and for second couldn't believe what she was seeing, but the thing that had stung her was most definitely not a bee, mosquito, or any other kind of insect she would expect a moist July night. "The case you're working on, St. Peters-"  
  
Anita couldn't hear the rest, and no doubt it was important, but she released the phone in favor of drawing her Browning as the not-mosquito clattered to the ground at her feet. She whirled around, putting the payphone between her and the parking lot. She gasped and turned, firing into the darkness and what she hoped was the direction of her attackers, as two more of the darts came from different directions, one of which sunk into her side even as the other ricochet off the bricks and thudded on her thigh. She needed to get out of the damn light! Here she was, right next to a fucking neon sign for all the world to see while the bad guys took shelter in the dark. Her unusually good night vision meant squat with such a discrepancy in lighting, and she hit the gravel trying to minimize their target.  
  
She crawled along, heard the bell on the door of the mom-and-pop station open, and screamed. "Get back inside!" A woman with long brown hair and glasses took one look at the Browning and fell backwards into the store. Something glimered in the darkness, and with that as a focus point Anita rolled onto her back and fired. There was a rewarding, if strangled, scream even as a trio of metalic darts sunk into the ground around her. If she could make it to the bushes, she just might have a chance. There was a pause in the attack, and she was getting woozy, but it didn't last as another, larger needle came from the left of the gas pumps and hit her exposed calf. "FUCK!"  
  
With the third vampire mark, and a connection to both the St. Louis werewolf pack and wereleopard pard, she had a damn good constitution, but whatever had been in those darts must have been designed for werebear. Her arms shook as she tried to get up, to run, but two more of those damn darts sunk into her and she collapsed with her cheek pressed uncomfortably into broken concrete. Her breath came rapidly, her heart was beating too fast, and it took everything she had to keep crawling. The dark haired woman had just enough presence of mind to realize she was screwed.  
  
She blinked slowly, trying to think, but it just kept getting harder and the world was going darker. A pair of what looked like sturdy combat boots entered her decreasing field of vision, and a blank, emotionless voice spoke into a crackling radio: "Target is down. Orders?" Other boots came a crunching. Orderly. Controlled. Her lips twitched into a grin as she smelled blood.  
  
"No witnesses."  
  
As Anita succumbed to the drugs rushing through her system, she let out a desperate, tired laugh. She faintly heard her Browning go skittering over by a gas pump as unseen hands lifted her limp body. She was being abducted. Again.  
  
At least it wasn't by a dragon this time.  
  
People, she could kill.

 


	20. Romero Would Be Proud

Anita shivered as she woke to the sound of a heart monitor beep-beep-beeping along, and a wave of nausea. Too old. She was too old, and she was really starting to get tired of this kind of shit. It was even starting to become cliche. The familiar irritation of sensors taped to her skin reminded her of all the other times she'd woken in a hospital after a fight, but unlike all those other times Anita couldn't tell if her eyes were opened or not. Everywhere she looked, thought she looked, it was a cold, unending blackness.  
  
The beeping hitched when she realized she couldn't move. Unforgiving steel wrapped around her wrists and ankles, while another band encircled her throat and kept her from sitting up. With the fresh panic came another round of sickness, and she forced herself to breathe through her nose while thinking of wide open fields of rippling grass. She was not thinking of her near frozen arms, the hooks of her bra digging into her back as she pressed into the metal bed beneath her, or her mysterious lack of pants. Well, not so mysterious. Clearly, the Bad Guys had taken them. Why? They were Bad Guys. Best not to speculate.  
  
The last time some baddies abducted the Executioner it wasn't for milk and cookies.

Something acrid collected in the back of her throat.  
  
There was an imp drumming on the inside of her skull, at least, that was what it felt like. Breathing through her nose hadn't been such a good idea, and Anita rolled her head to the side as she dry-heaved hoping not to choke on her own vomit. She hated drugs, partly because she didn't like her senses being dulled, partly because she was stubborn and hated to think she needed them, and partly because very few drugs didn't make her feel like total crap afterwards. Add in the chemical scent in the air, the dry moth-ball feeling in her mouth, and it was all a recipe for stupid mistakes. Plus, she was freezing, and that didn't help in the least.  
  
Maybe this was what they meant by _unusual_ in cruel and unusual punishment.  
  
Come on Anita, the Executioner thought to herself, think things through. Look for clues. The smell reminded her of the biology lab in college, and if not for the massive headache she might have enjoyed nostalgia instead of nausea. It was a common preservative. Dead things.  
  
The realization brought with it a wave of fear. She jerked her hands, but the manacles didn't budge, and the cold seemed to become almost tangible as an unseen fog reached out to her senses. Suddenly, the room wasn't just dark. It was pitch: and all-consuming blackness that ate light inside it. People came here, and died.  
  
Not all had left. Half-formed voices whispered in her ear: joyous, desperate, frightened, demanding.

"Can't touch me." She thrashed in her bonds. "Can't. Can't." Impressions. Pain, sadness, despair, and underneath it all a quiet, hopeless, burning darkness.  
  
Anita wished she had stayed unconscious. She was an Animator. The dead were attracted to her, and even thought she knew, knew that the only power these particular kind of dead had over her was what she gave them, it was so hard not to. Other's emotions washed over her, waves breaking on the beach, and hands that under normal circumstances she could shake off and ignore fluttered against her bare-skin. Bound as she was, the only thing she could do was bite her lip as goosebumps marked too cold touches.  
  
Dead hands. Echos. Ghosts. "Can't hurt me." If she said it enough, maybe they would believe her.  
  
The heart monitor sped up, sounding something like a high-pitched drum roll.

It was dark out, and no matter how much he strained his eyes Zebrowski couldn't see the lights of a jeep driving up the street with their perpetually annoyed consultant in the driver's seat. Nothing but a mini-van and a mustang on the road, ships passing in the night, and it did not bode well. There was a sense of urgency that had been growing in the back of his mind ever since Anita had stormed out of the waiting room of the hospital with her hands in the air insisting she needed a break. He would have preferred for her to stay, but she was a big girl, and all his teasing backfired to send her marching for her car faster than Katie confronted with a spider.  
  
For all her quirks, Anita was punctual. If she said she would be somewhere, she was there, come hell, high water, or zombie apocalypse. Especially a zombie apocalypse, considering her day job -Or was it night job?- she would probably be leading it. Smiling to himself, Zebrowski turned from the window, considered the rapidly cooling coffee in his hand, and paced the tiny waiting room of the Stanton Sheriff's office. Ten steps, circle the uncomfortable end table covered in out of date magazines, followed by another ten steps in the other direction. The office secretary huffed as she continued typing into her computer, occasionally eying him over her stereotypical glasses. He could hear the air conditioner chugging along like an out of breath jogger as he paced, thinking. Deputy Micheals' silhouette could be seen through Sheriff Bart's door, talking on the phone with person's unknown, as he tried to fill his superior's shoes. Sheriff Bart himself was currently at the hospital along with Agent Moss and Zebrowski's own superior.  
  
Where was Anita? The Stanton law enforcement didn't have near the amount of personnel they needed for a case this big, and Zebrowski knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that it was going to get worse. It already _was_ worse.  
  
The office door opened with a bang, not the most mature thing to do, and Deputy Micheals walked out. He was young enough to be Zebrowski's rebellious teenager, at least that was what the detective had thought when he first saw the younger man at the crime scene. As he walked out of the office the florescent lighting made him look paler than usual. The kid swallowed, and his eyes were desolate. You weren't supposed to see eyes like that out here. Not when the worst crime that could possibly be committed was pie theft. "They found Ms. Blake's jeep, sir, off Westchester, in a ditch."  
  
The inhale was sharp, cold, and he knew that wasn't the worst of it. Couldn't be the worst of it. Zebrowski watched his coffee disappear down a water-fountain drain. It left little puddles of murky brown.  
  
"The Jeffersons are missing. Carly called it in. It, it looks like a robbery. The shop is a total mess, but..." The boy shook his head, hand going to the .45 Smith and Wesson he had slipped into a leg holster, cowboy style. Shoot from the hip. Could you actually hit anything that way? Maybe if you had enough practice, but the RPIT detective didn't think so. "...there's something, something wrong with all of this." Micheals turned to the woman, her fingers still over the keyboard for the first time since Zebrowski entered the small county office, and continued. "The money was left in the till. It doesn't make any damn sense."  
  
"Is the scene secure?" Zebrowski asked, still staring at the brown blotches by the drain. The air conditioner chugged along. He should have said something more, but everything had been hectic and they were skating on thin ice as it was. He hated it when the head law honcho was dirty, and the whole damn thing smelled lemon-fresh. Stupid government conspiracies. Couldn't they stay on the History channel where they belonged?  
  
Micheals grimaced. "We can try, but Carly's the only one we got that isn't playing nurse-maid. She's newer than me..."  
  
Zebrowski rubbed his chin, noting the fact he was in need of yet another shave, and turned to the acting sheriff. "I don't want to step on any toes," he started, before darting a glance at the secretary. "But this is all starting to feel like the beginning of a massive shit storm. Have you called the Feds about Moss?"  
  
"Yeah, and he's still threatening to have Sargent Storr dismissed." The boy shook his head. "They said that they already sent someone down, to sit tight till the big boys arrive, then hung up on me. Sounded _bored_ , like the fact one of their guys nearly got a girl killed wasn't a concern." The boy all but spat, and if there was a spittoon nearby he just might have. Zebrowski eyed the hand that never quite left the .45.  
  
"They do that." Zebrowski sighed. He could count on one hand the mucky-mucks of the law enforcement world that did not rub people the wrong way. Sure, they had special training in their special facilities, and he would admit some of their undercover guys had balls of adamantium, but most of the time... "Most of the decisions upstairs are based on numbers. They say you can't put a price on a life but," Zebrowski shrugged, then grinned. "What do you say we throw a party, eh, Hoss?"

* * *

  
Bright, white lights flickered on with an unholy click. Anita hissed, whipping her head to the side, squeezing her eyes shut, trying in vain to block the fifty-billion needles that were suddenly attmepting to invade her brain.

"Good to see the medication wasn't too hard on you, dear." Anita's mind caught on the words, clinging to them like life preserver on a sea of dead, and there was a vaguely familiar scent drifting from the door mingling with the fog of formaldehyde. The animator tried to sit up, but her restraints had not decided to give up simply because a potential enemy had entered the room. The voice spoke in the same jovial tone one might use with strangers in a grocery store, but there was a barely perceptible tremor in the air. "Gave me quite a scare. When the usual dosage didn't work, I'm afraid the boys were a bit too eager to use the stronger stuff. I can't blame them, though, they just want to make their mother happy. I'm sure you know all about that, Anita."  
  
Slowly, carefully, Anita opened her eyes. She almost wished she hadn't. "Just so we're clear. I'm going to kill you." The sudden need to throw up was back, but Anita was proud to say, as she focused on breathing through her mouth, her voice remained steady with practiced undertones of menace. When you stand only five and half feet tall, in heels, managing menace in any situation is quite the accomplishment.  
  
Mrs. Finn smiled a depreciating smile as she patted Anita's shoulder before moving over to a stainless steel counter-top out of Anita's visual range. The animator could still hear the other woman moving around, drawers sliding open and the clink of metal on metal, and her heart gave a little jump which the monitor, traitorous fiend, broadcast to the world. The room was a cross between psychotic mad scientist and spartan minimalist. Steel shelves and wire wracks decorated the walls. There were jars on the shelves.  
  
Jars bearing body parts.  
  
Something, someone, trailed intangible fingers over her stomach causing her body to tremble. Those echos of pain now made sense, and though she should probably be concerned about whatever Finn was doing, it was hard not to think about the containers with a detached fascination. There was an eye staring at her. The iris was brown, soft and human, but the pupil... slit. Like a cat's. Human hands floated in the tinted liquid, and some were covered in fur. It shouldn't have been possible. When lycanthropes died, they reverted to human form. Everyone knew that. It was why so many accidents happened in states with Varmit laws. People were shot on suspicion, but as long as the blood test proved shifter afterward, it was okay. Sometimes the rareness of steak you preferred was suspicious enough even if the blood later proved human.  
  
Then she remembered Eve, stuck between forms, eyes filled a mad pain, who had her head blown right off her body. A body that she had assumed was simply a little slow on reverting. It could happen.  
  
You know what they say about assuming, Blake.  
  
Did that eye just move in its jar? No, certainly not...  
  
Finn was reading out of a manila folder when she stepped back into view. "Blake, Anita. Age 26. Single. Father, alive and somewhat estranged. Mother, deceased. Car crash. Stepmother, especially estranged. Animator with Animator's Inc. based out of St. Louis, Missouri, and local Vampire Executioner. In fact, it says here you have the highest Official kill count in North America. The very pretty face of law enforcement. Congratulations. The PR people must love you." The bottle brunette snapped the folder shut, crossed her arms, and looked down at Anita, expression empty. "Overall, an impressive resume. Very impressive." Grey eyes went glacial, and the corner of one lip twitched in dark amusement. "This file has been bounced around from agency to agency like the Federal hot-potato. When I first read it, I was disappointed that you would never become one of mine... rules and regulations against conscripting good-standing citizens or something, but now?"  
  
They were whispering around her. Whimpering warnings. All the pieces fell into place, and Anita felt her lip curling back in hate. Mrs. Finn, with her horrible chemical smell that just couldn't fade, her dyed and quickly cut hair, the signs of exhaustion, and the suspicious lack of pictures in the files taken from the St. Peters Safehouse...

"You're Margaret Walsh, aren't you?" How could she be so stupid? Molly was just another permutation of the same name, like Peggy, or Maggie, and how the hell did she let a crazy white coat get the drop on her? Edward would be laughing his ass off if he knew.  
  
Or maybe not. She'd only seen him laugh twice in the whole she knew the man, and neither of those were from getting captured. He would probably just shake his head in disappointment and cluck his tongue like a disappointed parent.  
  
Walsh arched an eyebrow. "My, they didn't say how quick you were. Though, I suppose it is to be expected. They don't let complete idiots into the Marshall Program." The woman turned around, and crossed the room to a fridge with a glass door. It opened, and Anita could only assume it was freakishly cold as a bank of fog rolled out of the refrigerator. The dead in the room quivered, pressing in on her, trying to crawl their way inside as she repeated under her breath that they couldn't hurt her. Voiceless, soundless, invisible. They were ghosts. Couldn't touch her unless she let them.  
  
But they were- scared?  
  
What scared the dead? No, no, no. Ignore them. Too late. Fingers curled at her hair, bodies pressing against her own as they cowered. She fed them, and they fed her. They cowered, and she knew they cowered, and it was impossible to not notice it.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Anita felt her throat constrict. Walsh had a small glass bottle, stoppered, in one hand. She set it on a tray with a syringe. Keep her talking, please God, keep her talking. Small spaces, and needles. Everything she hated with an irrational fear. At the moment, though, it didn't seem irrational. She shook, jerking under her bonds and nearly choked as her neck pressed against the metal.  
  
"It's no use, Anita. I've used slabs like this one to hold partially shifted ursathropes. As a human, you don't have a prayer." Grey eyes blinked. "Oh. You are a religious person, aren't you? My apologies, didn't mean to be insensitive to one's religious beliefs." Walsh tipped the small bottle upside down as she pierced the rubber with the syringe. The liquid was clear, with the slightest tint of reddish brown, like highly diluted blood, and Anita knew without a doubt she did not want whatever in the nine hells that was anywhere near her.  
  
Dark, frightened eyes watched a little stream of liquid squirt from the needle. Removing air bubbles. A petite mouth moved on autopilot. "You're fucking bat shit."  
  
Run, something growled at her as something else gave an answering rumble through her chest. Run.  
  
Walsh chuckled. "The difference between genius and insanity it a fine, fine line, but I don't think I've crossed it." The doctor sighed, a tired sigh, and glared at the bound woman. "I didn't want this, you know. Running. Hiding. Working from the shadows. Of course we were always in the shadows, poor sensitive congressmen couldn't stomach the details of my work." She gestured, hand going to the jars and their grisly contents like a game-show host announcing a fabulous prize. "You have no idea how hard it was to get hold of live specimens! How quick the samples of the virus lose viability if not properly preserved! Those... animals... go to their little enclaves. Most eat their own dead, and you can't get anything good after that!" She shook her head as if to say, can you believe it? "Not to mention the packs notice if members go missing, they are so damn paranoid, that for years all my research kept getting put on hold.  
  
"But then I figured it out." The woman leaned down, running her hand along Anita's bare leg, and disgust mingled with panicked fear ate at the animator from within. "I would just have to make my own. It was difficult to get on the development committee for the lycanthropy vaccines, but I _did_ it. I still can't believe no one made the connection."  
  
Anita could not look away from the needle dangling from thin fingers. She was delaying, stalling, and she doubted anyone would arrive in time to stop the psycho but still... anything to keep the damn needle away from her. "Connection?" She really hoped Walsh didn't notice the slight waver in her speech, but then when you were a few steps away from hyperventilating it was hard to speak normally.  
  
"Please," the doctor smirked. "The vaccines are made from feline strains of lycanthrophy, notorious as one of the hardest strains to catch next to reptile. So why the hell did people catch the wolf strain from the shots? You can add, can't you? Not just a thug in pretty packaging? RPIT's little attack dog."  
  
It was like someone had just hit her between the eyes with a baseball bat. "Oh. God." Richard. Anita remembered Richard (loved him if she was honest with herself) and why it was so hard for him to adapt to the life of a werewolf. Gwen had told her about it, once, how there was something about being attacked that changed a person. Made them harder. Adaptable. Richard was strong, one of the strongest in the Eastern half of the Nation, but he lacked something intrinsic to werewolves. Something that, perhaps, could only be transferred through an attack. "You infected people on purpose."  
  
"Learned quite a bit from it, too. Shame I can't share it with anyone, the hazards of being part of a clandestine organization. Did you know that sensitives have a built in immunity to the virus? At least that's what the statistics seem to show. I think it is a little like your... what do you call it... the way animators have resistance to vampiric gaze?" Walsh nodded to herself. "Yet, when the virus finally does take hold after repeated exposure, it creates some of the strongest shifters I've ever seen. I'm really looking forward to seeing what you do, daughter."  
  
"I'm not-" Anita rocked back, head grinding into the metal of the table, and began hyperventilating. The needle was in her arm, Walsh was depressing the syringe, and it was hot like lava had been released into her veins. Fire raced through her body, burning her up from the inside. Her old scars throbbed, pulsing with pain, and the Executioner couldn't stop the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Margaret Walsh's hand patted her cheek. Anita wanted to bite it. Everything within her howled for blood. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to rip out your throat, dance on your corpse, and piss on your grave."  
  
"Creative." She smiled then, a dreamy smile, but there was a hard edge. "I lost Eve to you, but I think you'll make a worthy replacement for my Adam. Yes. He'll come home to mother once I have you all fixed up. A proper girl. He'll come home..."  
  
She turned and left, lab coat swishing behind her, footsteps fading with the retreat. She flicked the lights off before vanishing, normally a small mercy to the newly infected whose senses would be going into overdrive, but Anita felt the walls close back in. The dead were still there, wailing. Growling.  
  
They were starting to feel familiar, now that she wasn't using everything to rationalize them away. She was too busy feeling her body try to fight off the virus. It burned. She'd been slashed before. Never bitten, thank God, but shifter claws had racked her back and her arm. Those wounds were starting to feel fresh.  
  
The salt of her tears mingled with the salt of her sweat, her face felt flushed, and without seeing anything her eyes darted around the room to the jars she couldn't forget. The beasts within her rallied, screaming, and the part that was Richard surged forward. She needed to move. Needed to run off the energy before it threatened to burn her up from the inside.  
  
But she couldn't move.  
  
Couldn't see.  
  
Couldn't breathe.  
  
Her blood pounded in her ears, a rush like the ocean, and she screamed.  
  
The dead were closing in all around her, crushing, pressing down. She was trapped.  
  
So she did the only thing she could do.

* * *

  
Jean-Claude was seated comfortably in his personal office at The Laughing Corpse comparing the ledger kept by the manager with his own master account book. It was relaxing. Numbers didn't lie, unless you manipulated them to, and were so much more simple. Orderly. They lined up in nice, neat little rows- symbols of power and wealth. His power and wealth.  
  
Not that the vampire would ever tell anyone that. Running the numbers was soothing, in a way, and it served as a good enough background while he considered other matters. Quite a few Masters had made inquiries about the children, he had no illusions that some of his Kiss had loyalties to others, it was all part of the Game, but he could only stall for so long. The Daughter needed to be found. Contained, if not controlled. And not simply because she would make a powerful trophy.  
  
There were some that would demand her death if they knew. Just as there were some that still believed his petite needed to be put down before she became a threat. A bigger threat, at any rate.  
  
Still, he had looked into her heart, and saw a girl. A little girl, standing on her own two feet but holding her arms out in askance. Strong, but so very... thirsty. For what, perhaps even she didn't know, but he was certain that need could be met. First, though, the children had to be found. He was fairly certain that they remained within his borders, or at least they had not been picked up by anyone else. The Rat King reported they had headed west.  
  
Jean-Claude was contemplating who he should send out to try tracking them -His wolves were not experienced enough to try taking someone without killing them, and most of his vampires were not strong enough to pose a threat to her. Not when her guard was up.- when invisible claws scrapped at his heart and reached in, pleading. The Master of the City lurched in his seat gasping for unneeded breath, holding one hand to his heart, and felt a strange sense of duality. The marks blazed to life. Left untended for months as his Human Servant fled from him to learn and strengthen her walls, he had felt as brick-by-brick she closed herself off from her bond-mates. Then barely a month ago those walls had blasted away, and he thought her dying.  
  
Yet she had survived, and plastered over those weeping wounds in her aura refusing to accept that they needed tending. Now though, now he looked through her eyes as her pulse thrummed on his tongue, beating like a rabbit's. It felt as though Holy Water had been poured down his throat, circulating through his veins, and some unknown thing was brushing against him. The smell of chemicals -A hospital?- mingled with the parchment and ink of his office.  
  
Jean-Claude? Whispered desperation.  
  
Jean-Claude?! Richard!  
  
Words. Thoughts. They flitted through his mind like the brush of sparrow's wing, distance turning them into broken fragments borne on sharp bits of panic and wildly fluctuating power.  
  
Anita, he called softly in response, throwing as much reassurance as he could back through their neglected bond. She latched onto him, and a soul searing rage swamped the connection. He couldn't tell if it was his or hers, perhaps they were feeding each other's? No matter. Someone had taken his Human Servant, bound her, terrified her. No one took from him, not anymore, not since he had become Master of the City. She was his petite.  
  
His.  
  
Anita! This time the voice was a low growl, stronger, filled with a trundling hatred, and Jean-Claude reached out to the third and final part of their union. His wolf wailed, demanding blood and vengeance, demanding reparations be made for this attack on his Pack. Blue eyes closed and drank in the power that swirled, agitated, looking for release as ghostly howling echoed in his ears.  
  
Jean-Claude calmly rose from his seat, closed the massive record book, placed the inkwell back in its drawer, and grabbed his coat as he made for the heavy oak door. He had calls to make. At the moment, there was a much more pressing matter to attend to than bookkeeping.  
  
"Uh, Boss? Everything okay?"  
  
Jean-Claude's power swirled around him, and he turned glowing sapphire eyes to the young vampire. Willie wasn't even a decade dead, but he could feel the strength and quiet rage flowing off of the Master. "Non. Mais il sera." Jean-Claude tilted his head, long soft curls sliding over the shoulder of his silk shirt, and focused on the bond between him and his Kiss. Willie's eyes widened, pale skin drenching to a near translucent marble that clashed horribly with his vibrant suit. The air hummed between them.  
  
"...Master...?" The title was breathed with wonder.  
  
The Master of St. Louis concentrated on those threads of power, oh-so-delicate, that connected him to his triumvirate. She was southwest.

* * *

  
Anita sucked in air, panting, having given up the fight some time ago. She felt feverish, and she was seeing things. Hearing things. Whimpers and howls and hisses. Animal sounds echoed in the room and cold noses pressed up against her skin. But they weren't _really_ there. And they felt off. Or maybe she was off.  
  
Something was creeping through her veins. Something was clawing at her chest, something that wanted to break out into the world but the vessel wasn't capable of birthing it. Anita spat blood, gave a great cough that turned to a wheeze as her flesh felt like it was trying to crawl right off of her bones. Her beasts fought, thrashing beneath her skin, and her joints ached.  
  
Despite the darkness, she could see two pinpricks of light glimmer in the distance. One cold. One hot. Hotter. She kept them in her sights as her breath caught in her throat. As undead tongues licked at her hands. As voiceless throats growled beseechingly to her, and tears trickled down past her catatonia.

* * *

  
Down below, thousands of people went about their lives. Some going to work. Some going home from work. Some going out to drink and forget, or to drink and remember. St. Louis city lights aren't all that different from any other city, Oz mused, as he slouched on a water storage tank atop the roof of a small club. Located in the middle of University City, or close enough anyway, the bar was as far from Preternatural HQ as possible without leaving the city, and they couldn't leave. If the scoobies wanted to track down Jack they needed to be close to the water system, and the main water way was the Mississippi that St. Louis just happened to founded on.  
  
A gust of wind brought the scents of zesty Italian, perfume, car exhaust, and sweet, sweet melted dairy goodness. "Cheesy fries?" Xander asked with a yawn. The wooden ladder of the water tank creaked, though Oz doubted anyone else would have noticed. Xander certainly didn't. The brunette flopped down, and waved the basket of cheddar and bacon covered french fries beneath Oz's nose. "Freshly appropriated from an unwatched table. Well, mostly unwatched, but I think the guy sitting there was too drunk to take a floating plate of appetizers seriously."  
  
"Buffy and Willow?" Oz asked, curious, as his inner fluffy sat up and scratched at the walls of his mind. It wanted, needed, to know where the females were. Where the rest of the family, the pack, was. The wolf rumbled within him, uneasy, and Oz swung his feet back and forth as he kept watch on the bustling nighttime traffic below. Getting into the city had been harder than leaving it had been.

The bus terminal had been covered in the animal-tinted scent Oz had been coming to recognize as a therianthrope, and it seemed like the entire community had its collective dander up about something. They weren't out in the numbers of a few nights ago, but they were there, and on alert like a pack of tightly wound springs just waiting to go off and put out someone's eye. Pardon his French, but it had been a mÃ¨re furieuse avoiding them and being avoided in turn. Luckily, the scoobies had ample experience sneaking around, so they were left with the main problem.  
  
The werewolf reached for a calorie-covered potato, his fingers brushing against Xander's, and thought. If he were a crazed, woman-hating, green escapee from Area 51, where would _he_ strike next?  
  
Xander spoke through a mouth full of carbohydrates. "Dancing. What else? Buffy wanted to go on the main floor, but Willow convinced her to stay off it." He leaned back against the surprisingly cool steel of the water tank. "I love her like a... you know... but even I think it'd be a little weird seeing our illustrious leader pop, lock, and drop it at the moment."  
  
Yes, Oz could see that. When you counted the habit rich college co-eds had of caring around cameras to take drunk pictures and the rise of the internet such a thing did not bode well. Still, Buffy needed an outlet, and dancing was as good as it got without a clear target. He watched a woman get out of a cab while talking, screaming really, into what he assumed was a cell phone before shoving money through the window and marching along the sidewalk. Cheating boyfriend. Normal worries. Normal life. No saving the world from demons or growing a tail and running naked in the moonlight. A nice, normal, life.  
  
Pah, as Devon would have said before knocking back a tequila, normal life is for pussies.  
  
Oz cracked his neck, and plucked a few strings on his guitar. Pity he couldn't use his new found cuteness to gain them some monies, but the risks outweighed the benefits. Still, it didn't stop him from using superior hearing to zero in on the DJ and match the speed of his playing to the rolling, retro beat that vibrated through the walls. "We got a plan yet?" The same step from earlier squeaked as two sweaty, giggling bodies clambered up. Buffy followed behind Willow, a happy, sweaty smile on her face as she guarded their rear from any concerned samaritians.  
  
The two girls balanced their way over, squeezing between the boys and the water tank with yawns. The quatrain leaned back in the shadows, watching city life continue as unaware of danger as ever, soaking up the moment. Oz breathed deep, strummed a few more notes, and whispered assurances to the beast inside. He couldn't tell if it was just picking up the general panicked air of the shifter community, or if there was something else the wolf was sensing. Trouble and danger. Threat.  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes and cuddled up the wooden planks of the platform, "Come on, people. Lights out."  
  
Oz felt Xander looking at him. Brown eyes darted away as the werewolf turned to him, and the younger boy shrugged. "Buff's right. We've got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow, with or without appropriations."  
  
Busy. Right. Oz put his guitar back in the case, hooked the strap around a plank to be sure it didn't fall off into the abyss below, and stretched out. Even before Jordy's little present, he had always liked hunting.  
  
Oz tucked the walkie-talkie Xander handed him under his shirt, and listened to the bustle of the city. He felt Buffy's eyes on him, the way she rolled her neck and fought for a comfortable position, and knew she was picking up on that same tension that resonated throughout the city.  
  
Weirdness.

* * *

  
He had been sleeping when it hit. Pure, condensed fear and panic woke him as easily as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, and Richard found himself sitting up in bed staring at his hands, feeling at his wrists, ears straining to pick up the faint buzz of cicadas outside instead that awful mechanical beeping. There was a pit in his stomach and a rage in his breast as his body continued to feel echos of another's mind-numbing fear.  
  
Anita hated enclosed spaces.  
  
Now they were Running, everyone with any kind of fighting experience, were Running. Roads meant nothing. Boundaries meant nothing. They Ran, noses to the wind as it caressed rough fur bringing messages only the Beast could understand. Eyes aglow, Richard leapt over a barbed wire fence, hit a tree line, and ignored everything but the connection singing out in his mind. He kicked into high gear, dropping his half-man state for the speed of four paws, and the connection flickered.  
  
Be calm, mon loup. We know nothing of those who have taken her.  
  
Jean-Claude was out there somewhere. A voice of reason. Richard didn't feel like being particularly reasonable. Anita was growing weaker... or her ability to maintain their bond was. Anita was in trouble, and if she was desperate enough to ask for help, the woman that had wanted to share his burdens but balked at the lightening of her own, it was truly, epically bad. He had seen her in happiness, in sadness, and in rage, but the thought of those dark eyes filled with pain and terror sent rivers of rage pooling up from his belly. A tendril of guilt and self loathing accompanied it, and he pushed himself that much harder. Trees seemed to leap out of his path, the ground became a clear trail for claws to gain easy purchase.  
  
The Ulfric was beyond words. His claws dug into the earth, and a howl ripped up from his chest into the night. He could hear his pack join in the call as he sent images and feeling back to Jean-Claude. The vampire may know women, but Richard knew Anita. They had been engaged, even if only for a few days, and no matter what happened since, no matter the indiscretions, he still loved her. They would never, ever, have a normal relationship, but love was irrational, and above all she was his Lupa. Still.  
  
His.  
  
The connection flickered, and Richard tumbled at the sudden shock of power rushing up through fur covered limbs. Power that drifted out along their tenuous bond streatching it to the limit, and panting Richard rolled back onto his paws. The link was gone. Where Anita's mind had been was nothing but a wad of... instinct... and all Richard could feel from Jean-Claude was cold purpose.  
  
The Wolf remembered the direction. The scent of its mate lingered on the breeze. It continued on.

* * *

  
Anyone who had walked by the brightly lit room lined with television screens would likely have done a double take. Three men, boys really, sat vigil over a series of monitors displaying scenes from empty/occupied cages, hallways with varying levels of traffic, and several different views of nature. Most would have correctly assumed the trio of sentries were keeping an eye on security cameras, a rather normal occupation for aspiring soldiers assigned the duty, but there was no speech. Dressed in gray camouflage pants and black T's, the boys were nearly identical and sat like the machines they observed.  
  
No banter. No witty comebacks. No complaining of strict asshole officers.  
  
"Movement on D-5." One of the soldier boys spoke, tone void of feeling. "D-6, and F-2"  
  
The others took quick glances at their own monitor banks, and then turned the screens in question. All three reflected the night outside, brush covered country side, and despite the night-vision sensors giving everything a green tinge it was difficult to make out much beyond trees and shrub. Then there was a flash of silver, a thorn bush seemed to shivered as some blur rushed past. Too fast for a human.  
  
There was a barely perceptible narrowing of the eyes on the brunette soldier. "Agent Gates, switch to thermal imaging."  
  
"Sir." A male of African descent went back to his console and typed a few commands. Screens flashed before changing from shades of emerald to a series of colorful blobs on a gray-black background. It was obvious that it wasn't just D-5, 6, and F-2 with intruders. Intruders that were rapidly approaching the base. They had only a handful of minutes to ready a welcoming committee for their unknown guests.  
  
The unknowns were hot, averaging a temperature well above human norm, which could only mean one thing.  
  
"Shapeshifters."  
  
He pressed the alarm klaxon and headed down to the armory with Gates, leaving their third to continue monitoring the movements of the shifters, and to find out what kind of fight it would be. Capture or kill. Maybe both. They marched in silence, almost heedless of the alarm echoing through the complex.  
  
His eyes, however, were screaming.

* * *

  
Nimir-Ra. That was supposed to mean something. Something... special. Important. They were whispering that to her, and someone else, someone she was pretty sure was supposed to be dead, was filling the air with laughter.  
  
Oh, that's Rich. The laughing woman cried, holding her stomach as her skin sparkled with blood soaked diamond dust. Still think humans are so much better than us? Is there any real difference? Not where it counts, little girl, not where it counts.  
  
Lupa. That was important, too. The sparkly-skinned woman was one. Thinking of her made her think of a water droplets hitting a pool. Very important. Nimir-Ra and Lupa. Important. Holes that needed to be filled. Roles to be played. Pulling her apart, crushing her under the weight, swimming through her veins...  
  
She hadn't wanted it.  
  
Some people are born great, the laughing, there-but-not woman giggled. And some people have greatness thrust upon them.  
  
She blinked in the darkness, hands curling into fists as her nails, too sharp by far, cut into her palms and the scent of fresh blood rose up over the cleaning solvents and preservatives. Nimir-Ra? Lupa? Titles. Important titles, yeah, but only additions. Deep down, she was the same. Always would be. Reaching inside, past the magic that scoured the humanity, she found a frozen core and embraced it, pulling the rest in after her.  
  
Nimir-Ra? Whiskers tickled her stomach.  
  
Lupa? Something licked at her bleeding hands.  
  
"Yes."  
  
As she exhaled the word, power pouring from her battered body and searching for something to sink into, the sound of shattering glass filled the small, dark room.

* * *

  
A wolf yelped as it hit the dirt, blood pouring from a hole in its side. Wolves the size of small ponies dodged and snarled as automatic weapons fire lit the night, temporarily blinding the Lukoi, while smoke grenades confused near perfect senses of smell.  
  
Jamil growled low in his throat and ducked behind a tree, focusing, and forced his body into the half-wolf state that had terrorized the human psyche for generations. He wiped the goop -Ectoplasm, a friend from his old pack had called it.- from his now fur-less hands and glanced back at one of the wererats that had accompanied them on this cross country run. He was not an enforcer, the Rodere didn't have quite the same structure as the wolves, but something close. What was his name? Jamil rolled to the side as the rat hissed warning, but the wolf didn't notice the tripwire until he'd set it off sending earth and deadly debris shooting through the air.  
  
He hit the ground with a thud, hunks of his own meat raining down around him, and the Hati of Thronnos Rokke wheezed as his healing kicked in. If he _wasn't_ an alpha, the blast might have killed him. As it was, the Rat's warning had allowed him to protect the more vital bits. It didn't matter how strong your regeneration was; like vampires, if the heart was destroyed no therianthrope would be getting up.  
  
"Amateur." The wererat hissed as he knelt down, sniffing. Satisfied the wolf would live, the rat then swung a case off of his back, revealing the assault rifle within, and began checking the weapon for any possible damage acquired during transit. While they weren't enemies, there was no love lost between the Rodere and the Lukoi. Their treaty wasn't even between their clans, but between their kings. If Richard died, or left, the Dark Crown had no reason to not attack the Thronnos Rokke in revenge for the deeds of their past Ulfric and Lupa. They only worked together for the friendship shared between the wolves' Ulfric and the Rom's lieutenant, and because the Rom felt he owed something to the Lupa, who was in danger. The Rodere paid their debts. Always.  
  
New, rapid bursts of fire could be heard joining the fray, hopefully in the other direction, and Jamil rolled on to his side. "What are you doing?" The werewolf asked with a small amount of confusion and pain as metal shrapnel was pushed from his flesh.  
  
The rat looked at him, eyes a black pitch, and his nose twitched. "Does it look like we're fighting Lukoi?" He then reached inside a leather pouch that hung off the belt around his waist, and Jamil was starting to understand why the rats sometimes dressed after shifting when most weres didn't bother, only to take out what the Hati was pretty sure was a grenade. "Can you throw?"  
  
Snarling, wolf's ears pressed flat against his head in challenge, Jamil pushed himself off the blood soaked earth, swayed, then snatched the grenade out of the rat's paw. "You bet your ass I can throw."  
  
Jamil may not personally like Anita much, but until the Ulfric found a replacement she was his Lupa, and no one messed with his Pack. He had been an Enforcer since he was fifteen. Sometimes that meant crushing troublesome skulls, and he was no stranger to death and destruction. But this... He pulled the pin, and as he hurled the tiny blob of death at their enemies the small radio at the rat's side crackled to life as someone issued a series of commands that sounded promising. His companion chuckled darkly before slinking over to the fallen and decompsing log Jamil was using as cover, then bound forward, moving in a erratic manner as he bounced from cover to cover, the wolf following, weapon's fire flashing over their heads.

* * *

  
Graham Miller was an ace student, and a star jock. He could have gone to any college in the country, and a few out of it, but when he graduated high school he decided to follow in his late father's footsteps and join the army. Like before, he was the model student -soldier- and a week before graduating Basic he was approached by a woman with an offer. There was a special unit being formed, taking only the creme of the crop, and would he like to join?  
  
Strictly volunteer basis, and it would require intensive _special_ training.  
  
Stupidly, he had jumped at the chance. They were looking into ways to build a better soldier, and what warm-blooded American boy didn't have secret dreams of being Captain America made flesh? What girl didn't want an invisible jet to fly around in? How could he not accept the offer, when it meant so much to his Country? His family? They would be building a future, safeguarding the nation in an arms race that had only just begun.  
  
Graham Miller was given training and abilities that shouldn't have been possible for a human without years of dedicated effort and practice. But it came with a price. Nights haunted by screams of the damned. Days spent wondering if he was really himself, if his father would have approved of what they were doing, if the ends justified the means. It blurred together at one point, and if you voiced your questions? Bad Things happened. A court martial and summary execution would have been a mercy.  
  
He was fighting things because he, literally, couldn't _not_ fight them. Not after the order came down, but looking through heat-sensitive snoopers he barely heard the sound of something dropping down behind him. Graham spun, mind absently noting the change in hostile classification, as his snoopers were showing an opponent several degrees cooler than human average, and if he had been able to he would have smiled in relief.  
  
Metal flashed, a massive sword tearing through the P-90 he had put up to block in a last second defense, and as his body found itself irreparably mauled, he laughed. They certainly never covered _that_ in boot camp.

* * *

  
The only reason Dolph left the hospital was because the on duty nurse, bless her self-righteous little soul, had Agent Moss hopped up on more painkillers than a broken nose probably warranted. The questionable man was far too gone in the land of pretty colors and fluffy bunnies to try, or even think about, disappearing into the woodwork. Rudolph Storr wouldn't put it past the arrogant prick to hide behind his badge and bury this whole SNAFU under so much red tape it would be a wonder if the victim sitting in ICU ever saw daylight, let alone justice. Which was a whole other can of worms all by itself.  
  
The Detective Sergent's hands squeezed the steering wheel as he approached the latest crime scene. Two squad cars, and one irkingly familiar mess with a portable police siren sitting on the roof like a too small hat, sat near the ditch just before the turn in to the little roadside stop. Dolph took a breath and began to count to ten in his head. Technically, being on the scene of something that was beyond his jurisdiction, there was no proof whatever had happened was connected to St. Peters or Adamson, and when he factored in his overenthusiastic debate with Moss, he was looking at a future filled with evaluations, appointments, and oversight. He already had a dark mark in his file for challenging a superior, it was why he had originally been transferred over to the Regional Preternatural Investigation Taskforce, the local law enforcement equivalent of Antarctica, and no matter how well he had turned the department into a functioning, competent, machine it wouldn't mean jack squat to the powers-that-be-in-charge. Not when they had been just waiting for a reason to put him under a microscope and get him discharged.  
  
But he would worry about that later, because he had a hunch now, and it wasn't Zebrowski's I-think-you-should-take-an-umbrella-with-you-even-though-it-hasn't-rained-in-weeks kind of hunch, it was the kind that every experienced cop developed sooner or later: the kind that told you if the perp was lying, if someone was about to pull a gun, or if the secretary from homicide had switched out the regular coffee for decaf.  
  
Dolph kept his bandaged hand in his pocket as he walked over the low-cut grass to the parking lot, his mind taking careful note of the broken glass, the phone dangling from its cord, and the signs of scuffle. "Zebrowski!"  
  
A gray-streaked head popped out the broken window. "Hey, uh, should you be here?" Zebrowski's head vanished, Dolph could here murmuring over the crackle of a flickering light bulb, before the man waltzed out the door to meet him. "Two missing, three if you count Anita, four-"  
  
"Anita's missing?" Dammit all. He liked the girl, even if she was developing an attitude and stubborn streak that naturally butted heads with his own, and for her to go missing... if he found out Moss had anything, anything at all, to do with it the Director could have his badge and his gun and Dolph would borrow his wife's .45.  
  
They headed across the gravel and dirt parking lot, passing one of Stanton's squad cars, and both heard the crackle of the police scanner through the rolled down window. Something about fireworks. It wasn't unusual out in the boonies for residents to start firing off bottle rockets -Black Cats tended to sound very similiar to weapons fire to the unexperinced.- and such so close to the Fourth, but it all was too convient. Too nice and neat and while nine times out of ten it was probably nothing... they doubted it. That gut instinct said otherwise, depsite the possibility that it could just as easily be a couple of stupid teenagers raiding grandpa's armory.  
  
"Micheals! We got a situation!" Zebrowski hollered, causing the Deputy Sheriff to jog out of the building, and there was hardness in the eyes that Dolph didn't remember. Micheals leaned on the door, head cocked, listening to the update before reaching in and requesting more information. The boy frowned and looked at them.  
  
"There's nothing out there but an abandoned mine."  
  
"There was nothing out there but an abandoned mine." Zebrowski corrected, with a gleam in his brown eyes that was nothing like the laughter Dolph was used to seeing in them.

* * *

  
The alarm had died out some time ago, but then with the sounds of gunfire and animalistic war cries echoing through the base the siren warning had become superfluous. Rage and adrenaline gave her streangth to rush through the packing of vital files. Years of research in preternatural biology and behavioral modifications in the form of backup discs went into her bag as her most trusted soldier guarded the door. Riley had already taken several hits: one arm hung limp at his side, the tendons torn by claws, and either bullets or flying glass had turned his right thigh into hamburger. The whole situation struck Maggie with a surreal sense of deja-vu, but instead of her creations running to get out, these invaders were getting in.  
  
And unlike the majority of her research suggested, they were not mindless animals. Before Bravo Team had ceased communications, they reported enemy covering fire as fully transformed wolves broke through the defenses moving with a swiftness that made them almost impossible to hit.  
  
She had never thought that in the pure wolf state anything resembling logic or tactics would have been possible, in fact she had considered utilizing them as shock-troops, but now such considerations would have to be pursued another day. Walsh's hand hovered over a rack of vials, different strains of the retrovirus she had cultivated throughout the years, but she didn't have time to properly prep them for travel. Shuddering, she slung her bag over her shoulder stepped up to her one of her best works. Already his leg had stopped bleeding, and with the inhibitors laced throughout his nervous system he wouldn't even be feeling any pain. If only she had been able to isolate the factor that allowed such rapid healing...  
  
Walsh shook her head to clear it. This is what lack of sleep got her. "Lab Seven, Riley." The boy looked at her, nodded, and proceeded down the hall. She followed, trusting him to take care of any problems that may crop up, and watched in satisfaction as the boy that had become a man under her tutelage scattered brains and blood over her once pristine walls. Her boys were all armed with silver, so she doubted the twitching corpse that was slowly transitioning back into a man would be getting up. Her eyes narrowed at the military class radio buzzing on a thick canvas tool belt, and she abruptly shut it off. "Hurry."  
  
Perhaps, Walsh mused, she should be heading for the emergency tunnels to the mine and freedom, but her latest child was still in the lab waiting for her return. The woman would be too troublesome to transport, not without proper conditioning, so she couldn't risk it.  
  
But Anita had killed her Eve. Destroyed her daughter, a daughter that had been only a few months away from perfection.  
  
Walsh stopped and punched in the combination on the keypad to open the door. "An eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth." She rolled a scalpal between her thumb and forfinger as the door slid open, letting out too cold air.  
  
The doctor didn't even have time to scream before an impossibility leapt from the darkness, teeth clamping down on her throat as a clawed hand tore at her shoulder, and in the back of her mind Walsh noted that Riley's silver wasn't doing a damn thing to stop it. They poured from the room, ghosts given form, and lapped up spilled lifeblood with each taste lending strength to the dead.  
  
Within the lab itself, Anita howled her laughter, and the pack answered her as a new kind of monster charged out to take vengeance.

* * *

  
They ran through the halls, pathways only half-remembered, and rushed to fill the space as fangs sought throats and claws tore flesh. The world was painted in shades of gray, and the sound of explosions sounded distant to their ears. Energy crackled through their limbs, pushing them forward, and they leapt.  
  
Bullets passed through their bodies as the enemy took notice, but bits of tasteless metal was inconsequential. Wolf met wolf, yellow eyes staring in fascinated horror at the moon-white orbs watching as human weapons crunched in half-formed jaws. A cat rushed out, body covered in bloody spots, eyes pupiless and dead, ignoring the lull in the fighting.  
  
The Ulfric paused only for a moment as one of the not-wolves lowered its head in difference, and making a snap decision, he followed the dead-but-not thing deeper into the complex leaving a single awe filled whisper to mark his reasonings.  
  
"...Munin."

* * *

  
Robert Moss blinked into awareness at the sound of highheels clicking on the floor. He opened his mouth to tell Nurse Ratchet that he didn't want anymore painkillers, he didn't need his thoughts anymore muddled, thank you, when his mouth twisted into a grimace. Honey colored hair, cut into a short page-boy style, framed a pointed if feminine face. He didn't need to see the leather wallet hanging from a oddly thick steel chain around her neck to know who she was. The bane of his existence.  
  
"Agent Jaeger."  
  
She stopped before his chair, and leaned over with a wicked grin. "Special. Agent. Jaeger." Her position put her chest at his nose level, and Moss sneered lecherously as his head throbbed with pressure.  
  
"Got a promotion, bitch?"  
  
"Didn't you know? I've always been special. And you... your pathetical handling of this little disaster has ruined what credibility you had. Bigot." Her hand whipped out, and Moss let out a strangled yelp as something sharp pressed into his neck, hissing. He squirmed, but she held him with her free hand as though he were a squirming infant, and her sunglasses slid down her nose revealing red-brown eyes that were anything but human. His own widened as he caught sight of the epi-pen that disappeared into her pocket, and his stomach rolled. "Welcome to the jungle."  
  
With a bounce in her step, Special Agent Jaeger rejoined her partner in the hallway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July was so crazy busy, I apologize for the lateness of the update. Here's hoping with reunions and wedding hoopla out of the way I can finish the fic before my birthday. Cheers!


	21. Riders on the Storm

The mud of the bank had hardened as he slept. It crackled, flaking off like dead skin, as he shifted sleep frozen limbs out of the muck and into a shallow, stagnate pool of water. A natural camouflage of moss and damp earth clung to the ridges of mottled, patched, _superior_ body, and he drank. The taste of the dirt in the brackish water was oddly similar to blood, rich with minerals, and he gulped it, visions of death dancing in his mind and fueling a different thirst. He could see all of his new family so very clear. Beautiful. Young. Soft. Rich golden hair, just like Hers. Only... it would never be quite like Hers, for she was special, twisted, just for him. (Had he ever been that human?) For each other, and he remembered spiting and cursing and promising what he now knew would never have the chance to come to pass. He'd missed his chance. Mother had left him, alone, to make his way in the wide, cruel, wonderful world.  
  
He would make do. He always did.  
  
Having drunk his fill, he righted himself, listening to the sound of joints popping and muscles twisting around immovable obstacles that burned so deliciously just beneath the skin. It was strange, he mused, the feeling of hollowness in his chest. He ran a razor tipped finger over mud-concealed scars in contemplation. They screamed inside of him: howls and pants and cackles scratching at the walls of his mind. All different, and yet all eager for blood. Violence. If he were anyone else, he might have termed it vengeance.  
  
Sometimes he wondered how no one else heard it. For how could they not? It was a constant presence, like a wind chimes or a ticking clock, if they wind chimes had been strung with teeth and the clock made of claws.  
  
He thoughts were interrupted by a furred snout emerging from the underbrush. She whimpered for attention, and he answered her plea in the form a swipe that left red ribbons across her face. Belly to the dirt, she cried, and it was so damn pathetic, he was tempted to rip out her throat and end it. End her. The poor substitute for his sister-wife. Learned helplessness, She had called it. The body was warped, imperfect, and a failure. Though some semblance of intelligence lurked in those slit reptilian eyes it was clear the animals ruled where human thought once lived.  
  
"She's dead. She can't hurt you anymore." He reached out, slowly this time, with a clawed hand and a crocodile smile, gently cradling the whimpering she-wolf.

His words flowed in a charming hiss as he stroked the top of her head, felt the fearful trembling cease, and in a blink reached around to snap the creature’s neck and then _keep_ going. Subject 019 let out a wheeze and a squeak as the light of life died in her eyes. For the briefest seconds, something that might have been fearful understanding gleamed. He traced a thumb along her crude, inhuman lips as he held the ragged head up by its tangled mane of hair and fur. She had a name, maybe, once upon a time.  
  
He thought he might have, too.  
  
Rough, scaled fingers sunk into the pale flesh as he bent to rip off an arm. He could hear them, in the tall grass and weed that skirted the small river, perking up and drooling. Brothers and sisters, hungry, but scared. Respectful. They knew their place. Mother had seen to it.  
  
But Mother was gone now, and they knew, in an indefinable way, that she would not be returning.  
  
Bone crunched between his jaws, easily snapping at the supernatural pressure he could bring against them, and the meat went down sticky-sweet. The sun wasn't yet high in the sky, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to find a nice sunny spot to nap and let the hot summer soak into his core as he digested. Unfortunately, he needed to keep moving. He had other hungers, other needs that needed seeing to.  
  
Seamlessly, he slid into the slow moving waters, mindful of the small group of monsters watching him in mouthwatering expectation. Twisted desires mingled with animal instinct as he navigated the waters, searching, plucking out useful memories from the foggy depths of his mind.

* * *

  
Finding people who don’t want to be found is one part art and one part luck. Most of those Ronnie had been hired to hunt down over the years had been disgruntled teenagers, dishonest spouses, and the psychopathic elderly. The last of which were damn vicious fighters who had no qualms using their teeth and dentures hurt like no ones’ business. Veronica had hoped finding Louie’s missing brood would be easier, especially with the news still running their descriptions on the ticker, but she was wrong. The problem lay in the fact people simply didn't notice children, especially children in groups, because it was generally assumed that they belonged to someone else. If the children had a problem, expected the masses, surely they would seek out the nearest uniformed officer? Wasn't that kindergarten basics?  
  
Yep, side-by-side with the adage: Don't talk to strangers and, conversely, stay where you are till help finds you.  
  
Ronnie leaned back, causing her chair to squeak, and tapped her chin with the ballpoint. She glanced at what information Louie had been able to bring by before going off to some shifter summit, and decided that she couldn't treat the four missing kids as disgruntled teenagers running away from mom and dad. No. These little midgets were definitely the psychotic elderly type; sneaky, suspicious, and skilled with something to prove. The blonde detective hummed a few notes of the Jeopardy theme and tried to figure out what the hell a bunch of kids would be after.  
  
Investigating them, their histories, only left her with mysteries and loose ends. She had hoped their backgrounds would give her some insight into what they were doing and where they were going, but half of them were supposed to be dead. Louie had supplied her with a copy of a death certificate for one Daniel "Oz" Osborne, and Willow Rosenberg was Missing Presumed Deceased, along with over half her town which shouldn't have been statistically possible. Surely someone would know where all those bodies went? Buffy's prints didn't exist in any database Veronica had access to, and she now owed several people favors in exchange for _bupkis_. The professional in her grated against the lack of progress her investigations had turned up and was would have liked to probe deeper, Sunnydale was far too large to be a simple suburb of Santa Barbara, when common sense reared its coiffed head.  
  
If children had such blackgrounds, and she really needed coffee if she was making such horrible puns, then what kind of red flags would be thrown up if she did? What kind of alarms had she already tripped just by looking into their names?  
  
Ronnie stood and shuffled over to her kitchen to pour a new pot of coffee. "The bureaucratic arts are a vast, often unintelligible, and many tentacled beast." She murmured to herself while spooning sugar into the penguin pattered mug that made the corners of her lips twitch in a nostalgia half smile. "They require an equally adaptable mindset."

The blonde slipped her little Colt into the back of her jeans and returned to her desk, caffeine enriched drink in hand. The case had been too interesting to sleep, and Louie was counting on her. She thought about children. They were not something she'd ever planned on having, at least not since her first marriage failed. Children meant tiny, drooling faces and poopie diapers.  
  
Why would anyone want them? Really. If the motherly drive ever started hitting her uterus, she was going to get some at the market, aged and potty trained complete with kung-fu action!

She sighed and placed the mug of coffee back onto the circular stain made permanent through years of late nights at her work desk.  
  
Ronnie looked back down at the folder she'd been supplied, and at the image of a girl as thin as a willow-reed giggling at something her shave headed companion said. She thought about the little boy that called her Pretty Lady. There was nothing drooly-faced or poopie diaper about them.  
  
If their prison break was anything to go by, the definitely had kung-fu action going on.  
  
"Not kids." She stated to no one while nodding firmly to herself. "Psychotic old folks that somehow got their hands on a youth serum, definitely."  
  
Veronica Simms was a detective, and if there was one thing she knew about, it was the human psyche. It was necessary, in her business. You had to know what signs to look for in a cheating husband - Or wife: Ronnie was an equal opportunity investigator.- or where the dementia effected grandmother would sneak off to. Human beings, as a race, were rather lazy when it came down to it and you had to know what drove people. Motive, in cop speak.  
  
Ronnie set her mug on the desk and watched the front door through her hallway mirror. She had no reason to. She wasn't expecting anyone but, "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition."

And no one expects a bunch of 8-10 year old children to break into a highly secure facility to retrieve their companion. No one expects per-industrial weapons. A little voice piped up in the back of the blonde's head: No one expects a charity funded and state run hospital to be a front for illicit government conspiracies.  
  
But they did. And it was.  
  
And it suddenly made sense, once she stopped thinking of them as scared traumatized children wanting their friend back. _No one_ in their right mind would go wandering at night while there were insane shifters on the loose, but the four kids _were_ no one. Dead, missing, or records sealed. "Ah, SHIT!" Ronnie slapped her hands on her desk as she stood up, knocking over her coffee, spilling the hot liquid over her hands and cluttered desk, scalding her in-desperate-need-of-a-manicure hands. "Shit. Shit. Shit."  
  
She wiped her hands on her pant leg and stepped over to her row of metal cabinets, extraneous work files that she didn’t have room for in her rented office, and reached for a drawer full of city and state maps. The detective overturned a pack of push pins in her haste, but with her Missouri state map up on the wall and a highlighter clamped between her lips she began plotting points.  
  
Outside, clouds moved overhead, and the window rattled in its frame.

* * *

  
Briefly, Buffy entertained the idea that if she wasn't already, then she must be going insane. It could be that she'd never actually gotten out, and that she was still institutionalized with tiny bits of metal feeding into her veins and keeping her sedated. Pliable. That everything from the Hellmouth to the shrinkage was all part of her overactive imagination. An escape. Merrick had never mentioned supernatural hotspots or slayer lines, but then she hadn't known him long. They'd been more concerned with getting her trained enough to withstand Lothos than history.  
  
Maybe everything she was seeing, _doing_ , was the fantasy and all the bits about the bloody girl in LA were the true reality trying to get in. Maybe Dana was another patient in the psycho pyro ward, and the doctors decided to stick the two violent maniacs together in the hopes they would kill each other.  
  
Buffy pressed her head against the concrete pillar of the mall's parking garage. It was cool in the shade, out of the July heat, and the grit under her cheek felt so very real. She breathed in the dust, listened to the soft flutter of nervous pigeons, and clung to that reality because as much as she missed the smell of fresh waffles and the sound of her mother humming as she got ready for work... if this wasn't real..."Then neither are Willow, or Xan, or Oz..."  
  
"Hey, Buff, you want the Volkswagen or the Toyota?" Oz questioned as he wandered out of the shadows, kicking a fragment of rubble as he went. He walked along, hands in pockets, and if Buffy opened the dictionary and looked up nonchalant she was willing to bet there would be a picture of Oz.  
  
"Who? What? Where?" Buffy sputtered, snapping out of her daze. Her eyes flicked up, scanning the busy midday street and the garage entrance before refocusing on her friend.  
  
Oz arched an eyebrow, somehow managing to look decades more mature with that single gesture than his blueberry hair and short statue would suggest. "You forgot when and why."  
  
"Oh. Well, you know me and English." Buffy coughed as she picked at an invisible thread on her denim skirt. "The, uh, bug. German engineering and all that."  
  
"Uh-huh." The werewolf cocked his head, listening, and Buffy's eyes widened marginally as she took the cue. The two of them ducked behind the short wall of brickwork as a woman dressed in business casual passed by, heels clicking against the sidewalk. Further back in the garage a car beeped, headlights flashing, and the fugitive pair hunched down using various parked cars for cover as the woman walked to her own. As the Escalade drove out into the sun, its driver unaware of her watchers, Buffy let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Oz glanced at her. "Do we need to have another one of those talks?"  
  
"It's not that." Buffy shook her head, frowning. There was dirt on her hands, a result of crawling around alleyways and under cars, but no blood. Vampires dusted. Demons bled all sorts of colors. Werewolves would bleed red, though, like a person did. She fluffed her hair. "I was just thinking about home. You know how it is."  
  
Oz made a noise that could have been sympathy or indifference, and scratched at his nose. Buffy watched him as they headed deeper into the garage, up the gentle slope of the parking lot, and into the more deserted areas. Her wolf’s gait was relaxed and confident, as always, and most of all natural. Oz didn't do pretenses. There was something immensely comforting about that. You always, always knew where you were with Oz. Buffy quickened her step and shoved his shoulder. He shoved back.  
  
"You didn't get much sleep last night." There was no judgement in his voice.  
  
"Weird dreams. If I didn't know better, I might have thought they were slayer dreams." Running, jumping, slaying dreams. She waved away an imaginary cloud. "And there were all the mosquitoes. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out the original vampire demon was one."  
  
Willow's head popped out from behind a little blue car, teeth worrying at her lower lip as she eyed the pair. "Do you think this is becoming a habit? Are we turning into criminals? That's how it starts you know. First, ding-dong-ditch, then a joyride, and before you know it we're knocking over banks and kicking puppies!"  
  
Oz smiled, reaching over to lay a finger against her quivering, poised to rattle off another worst-case scenario lips. "Collateral damage. Military term. When you start organizing a chop-shop, then we'll worry." Willow scowled at her boyfriend, but there was more relief than anything else in the expression. She crossed her arms over her chest as Buffy hid her laugh with a cough. "Buff called the beetle."  
  
"Oh. Good." Willow smiled in relief. "Xander can reach the pedals in that one. Also, it's a happy yellow. I like yellow. Yellow is sunshine and daisies and butter and... what other things are yellow?"  
  
"Banana pudding?" Buffy offered as they rounded a final pillar.  
  
"Lemons. And french fries." Xander called around his fingertips out as the slid out of the VW in question, one of their daggers showing obvious signs of damage in his hands. "And I think I burned my fingers. Guess we should be glad it's old... we're still gonna have to push it to get started, though. And then if we turn it off I'm not positive I can get it going again."  
  
Buffy grinned and gestured all around them. "Well, we do have this nice, convenient downward slope."  
  
"Point." Xander grinned back. He rubbed his hands together, as if grand theft auto was a special treat that he'd been waiting to commit all year. Buffy pressed her lips together. Perhaps Willow was right about gateway crimes, like gateway drugs, and they should never have let him steal that rocket launcher from the Army base. "Okay. I'll steer and wait for the engine to turn over. Buffy and Oz, you guys will push. Willow, make sure the door stays open so they can jump in."  
  
Oz nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

  
The smell of burning pork hung in the humid air. The grass was wet with a mixture of mud and blood where it hadn't been torn out by clawed feet and weapons’ fire. Tree branches hung at odd, splintered-off angles, and every now and then a body part, or at least parts of a body, would be found half-buried in the wreckage. Bullet casings lay scattered about like bronze Easter eggs, only there was no chocolate inside and they had absolutely nothing to do with rebirth. It was a battlefield; plain and simple. Zebrowski wondered if the scattered, chewed up land was what his great-great-grandfather had witnessed during the Revolutionary War.  
  
The RPIT veteran looked down and glassy eyes stared back at him. Pinkish grey matter had splattered with bits of skull on the tree trunk behind the corpse. A tiny mark sat between the eyes where the bullet had gone in, but instead of fear the man -Boy, really. Old enough to die for his country but not to drink.- had a look of relief to his features. And that did not make sense. One of the legs was little more than hamburger, and a white bit of bone poked out from an arm, but it couldn't have been a mercy killing. Could it?  
  
Zebrowski's gaze drifted to the deep, heavy not-quite-footprints pressed into the ground beside the corpse. The toes were too long, and spread too oddly to be human.  
  
He'd had a rat when he was little. Called it Betsy. Dogs were too big for his mother's apartment and she was allergic to cats, so with prodigious use of pleading and fact charts they had compromised. The little gray and white fuzz puff had her own wheel, and a trail made out of PVC pipe and plastic soda bottles that lined his room. Betsy used to ride around in his coat pocket, standing on her back paws and peering out. It was kinda funny; he hadn't thought about her in years.  
  
The detective rubbed at his neck and waved forward the forensics team. Already a neat row of body bags waited for the meat wagon to return and cart the contents off to the land of refrigeration and postpartum biopsy. What was one more? People died everyday. The only difference was the why and how.  
  
A steel chain glinted in what little light came through the gathering clouds. Zebrowski leaned down, elbows pressing into his legs to maintain balance, and gave a grunt of surprise. A pair of military dog-tags, non-reflective, hung half-hidden among the sticky folds of fabric. There was what could only be a codename, or else his parents really hated the poor bastard, where his real name should have been. The RPIT cop shifted on his feet and lifted the chain free, sliding it between latex covered fingers. "Hello, Daisy." Zebrowski's lips twisted into what might have been a smile if any feeling had been put into it. They had found the Jeffersons, or what was left of the Jeffersons. They still hadn't found Anita.  
  
Or maybe they had, and she was scattered in with the many piles of parts being photographed and prepped for transport. The detective stood, eyes narrowing as they reassessed the field. It was a mess, and yet it was practically spotless. They didn't have much time.  
  
"Jesus." Clive Perry whispered as he waded through the muck, the ends of his pressed pant-legs rapidly drenching, his own gaze trapped by the unseeing, unknown soldier. "He's a kid, just a kid."  
  
No, Zebrowski thought as he reached into a jacket pocket for an emergency cigarette, our little vampire slayer isn't here. He didn't know where she was, exactly, but he knew she wasn't dead or dying. His gut was sure about that, and he knew to trust his gut. It was practically impossible to rope off such a large area and people, uniformed and not, were wandering around. A group of civilians had gathered by the road and Micheals was doing his damnedest to keep them back. The kid was throwing quite a few insults and threats into his explanation, but it seemed to be the only thing getting through to the gawkers. Zebrowski couldn't see his superior anywhere.  
  
"Where did Sargent Storr go?"  
  
"Back to the City. Brass isn't too happy about what he did to Moss. They have to make a gesture, in the spirit of inter-agency cooperation or something." Perry answered. He moved as if to elaborate but changed his mind and crouched down, looking beyond the corpse to the blood painted bark. The dark skinned man took a pair of gloves from his pocket and snapped them on, reaching for something stuck in the gore.  
  
Zebrowski moved, catching the other man with a look and shaking his head. "They haven't taken pictures of this area yet." They hadn't taken pictures of a lot of areas yet, they didn't have the man-power or experience with such a large case, and the site was still being sectioned off. Much more and they'd have to close the road, dirt and old gravel though it was.  
  
Perry peered at the tree, lines creasing between his eyes as he licked the salt from his lips. Sweat had broken out along his hair line. He pointed to a spot thoroughly caked in bits of brain with a pen light. Unlike the treated dog-tags, something glittered in the light. "Detective Zebrowski, what does that look like to you?"  
  
"Metal." A bit of metal plate in the head from a former injury? "They found evidence of shrapnel grenades. Could be that."  
  
"Then we wouldn't have such a pretty body."  
  
"True."  
  
They shared a moment of contemplative silence, watching as a shiny new Cobra with government plates drove up. Rocks crunched and pinged as the tires ground into the uneven surface. The car wasn't going to be shiny for long. They watched a short haired woman in a skirt suit get out, heels sinking into the soft earth, flashing a badge with three big capital letters on it. Agencies and their acronyms.  
  
Perry's arms swung at his side to help him balance as they picked their way to the main center of authority figures. "Storr wasn't kidding. Whoever did this, they were good. Professional. I heard the tech guys talking, and the underground bunker has been wiped. Someone sent a virus through the computers in addition to starting the fire on their way out."  
  
"...Shifter mafia, maybe?" Zebrowski looked up at the mottled gray sky. It was the kind of sky that would have his granddad's knees complaining. Granddad's knees talked a lot. At least to granddad. "You wouldn't happen to know what DRI stands for, would you?"  
  
"DRI? ...Desert Research Institute?"  
  
"See, that's what I thought, but there are no deserts out here." Zebrowski took two steps to the right, avoiding a pit, not breaking his stride.  
  
"What it stands for, gentlemen." The new federal liaison, one without a recently broken nose, turned to face them. "Is classified. I'm Special Agent Carolyn Jaeger."  
  
Zebrowski resisted the urge to spit, grinned instead, and let his eyes travel up and down the woman like a lecher. He wasn't the best, but his gut told him she had one gun at the small of her back, and another in a shoulder holster. She was also good, very good, and the suit helped, but there was something primal about the way she moved. Zebrowski clasped his hands behind his back and affected an air of childish innocence. "Oh, can't we have even a little hint? Pretty please?"  
  
"Sorry. Classified is classified." She then reached up, removing her fashionable sunglasses, and revealed cold, red eyes. "I cannot excuse Agent Moss' behavior, he let his personal bias get in the way, but I assure you such things won't happen again. We have a serial killer to catch, do we not? As for this mess, I have reason to believe it and the St. Peters brake out are related."  
  
"Do you now?" Micheals sing-songed with a heavy dollop of vehemence, and Zebrowski found it odd, and enjoyably novel, to not be on the receiving end of the territorial dispute.  
  
Jaeger bobbed her head, quick, and his stomach clenched. He smiled through it all, because there was a predator in their midst, and she was hunting for something the government didn't want to admit existed. That was what classified _meant_.  
  
Zebrowski had a feeling that when they finally got this all sorted out it and the report nicely typed up it was going to go in a moldy folder in some clandestine basement, waiting, until the idiots in charge screwed up again and it was up to two clever, determined, maverick agents to sort it all out.  
  
"Are you well, Detective?" Pretty-and-Predatory asked with a cool concern.  
  
Zebrowski rubbed his temples with one hand and let his grin turn into something almost whimsical. "Fine. Too much late-night TV is all. You were saying about Adamson?"

* * *

  
Xander tapped the break as they approached the new suburban development site. He looked into the rearview as they slowed, watching Willow and Oz tuck weapons and snacks about their person. The backpacks would be staying in their stolen car as the two would be covering more ground and needed freedom of movement. "I still don't like this." He stated, again, just for the record. "This always happens in movies. As soon as the hot teenage co-stars break up into groups to 'investigate' the mystery, or hunt the monster, they get eaten-kidnapped-tortured. Speaking as the comedic relief, and the one most likely to get eaten-kidnapped-tortured first, I vote we stay together!"  
  
"Speaking as the hot blonde sexy athlete chick, I veto your vote." Buffy puffed her chest out from where she sat in the passenger seat, but they could all see the false bravado for what it was. The Slayer didn't like the thought of them splitting up anymore than the Soldier did. "We talked about this, Xander, and if we stay together we'll only be able to watch one of the possible sites. What if Jack goes after the other guys? Who's going to warn them?"  
  
"...I know but... its Willow!" He didn't add the other half of what he was thinking. There was something pacing in his mind, agitated. Oz slipped a silver dagger through a belt-loop, and reached over the seat to grasp their driver by the shoulder. They were manly men, and men did not _hug_ for reassurance.  
  
"We'll be careful. I'll sniff 'um out before they get too close, and Wills will keep her distance."  
  
"Yeah, if they show up, and hey, Mister, I can do fireballs, now." The witch narrowed her eyes in concentration and held out a hand, palm up. It was a modification of another spell that she had been rather hit-and-miss with, a simple trick for starting camp fires, but with practice came a modicum of control. She'd gotten quite a bit of practice in the last month. "Incindie."  
  
Xander looked at the wavering bundle of flame dancing above his best friend's hand. "That's more like a fire golf-ball."  
  
Willow pouted, waved her hand to banish the flame, then crossed her arms as they slowed to a stop at the unfinished gated community. Buffy shrugged, eyes dimming as the light vanished. Whether she ever admitted it or not, the blonde warrior was a pyro at heart. "Fire's fire. Kick-ass, Wills. And if you do spot Jackie-boy-"  
  
Oz held up their walkie-talkie. It was good for ten miles, give or take. They'd tested it. "No engagement, excepting the endangerment of civilians. We shall summon the cavalry." The musician straightened in his seat, gaze darting between the other two as Willow opened the door and slid out into the drizzle, dragging her crossbow with her. "And, if you two locate the murdering bastard, you will. Call. Us."  
  
It was oddly warm in the small vehicle, like someone had turned the heater on, and the only silence was broken by fat raindrops hitting the roof or splattering against the window. Xander didn't like it. Rain washed away tracks, and would make it harder for Oz to sniff out the bad guys. Of course, Oz's nose was why it was him and Willow taking the suburban community. A decorative stream wound through the middle of the new neighborhood that eventually connected back to a tributary of the Mississippi, which made it an ideal place for Jack to use as a landing point if he choose, and the werewolf was best able to cover the larger area. Several of the houses were already inhabited, too, which meant victims.  
  
"We will." Buffy promised earnestly, but unlike the others she wasn't going to hang back and wait. Buffy would take the fight to the monsters, champion that she was, and they all knew it. Xander's job was to watch her back until Willow and Oz could provide much needed muscle and, recently, literal firepower.  
  
Nodding, Oz shut the door and wrapped an arm around their witch, who's hair was already damp and plastering to her skin. Boyfriend and girlfriend ducked past the little decorative guardhouse and entered the neighborhood, mud and clay sticking to their feet, quickly vanishing in the rain.  
  
"Come on, Key-guy." Buffy nudged him. "We got a mansion to get to."  
  
Xander changed gears and reversed out of the near pothole they'd driven into. "I still don't like this. I could make lists of how many times Scoobies splitting up lead to Bad Things."  
  
Buffy sighed, slumping. "I don't like it either, but we don't have a choice." The sky rumbled ominously overhead. She looked up, as if peering through the metal to the wild wet younder. "At least there haven't been any earthquakes."  
  
"Yeah." Xander perked up. "So if we fudge up, it'll only be us that dies!"  
  
Because if the monster did get to Oz and Willow first, he'd get them back or die trying. Next to him, eyes gleaming strangely in the grey light of the storm, Buffy promised herself the same thing.

* * *

  
Anita tried to move, but her body felt too heavy, and she couldn't breathe. She could only continue to sink as her hands reached for the sun that sparkled above. She opened her mouth, as if screaming for help, but the only thing that happened was salt water filling her lungs while panic overflowed her veins.  
  
This isn't right, she thought as a dark shapes swam around her. I've already been here. Done this.  
  
Her legs kicked, and something wrapped around her, trying to pin her to the mat. Lightbulbs flashed in the back of her mind. Phantom scales slid over her skin, nowhere near as smooth as they looked, and her twin fires glowed at her from the depths.  
  
Jormungand, a voice in the tone of her Comparative Mythology professor whispered, the world serpent. A giant. A shape-shifter. Once a snake, then a cat. Eating itself for a reason only it knew, and when it stopped the whole world would end...  
  
Calm down, you're safe. A new voice said, and she thought she recognized the soft wing beats of the syllables, but it was far away and muffled by miles of water...

* * *

  
They were cocooned in a layer of pulsing, electric heat. Vivian blinked open drowsy eyes as the door creaked to admit a slight, slim body, intruding on their little world. She raised her head the smallest bit, scenting the air, and picked out the distinct soap-and-honey combination of Cherry's skin amid the vanilla of Nathaniel and the sweat-blood-gunpowder that drifted off the Nimir-Ra. Cherry's feet didn't make any sounds as she padded across the dimly lit room to the bed, though the springs squeaked as she climbed over Nathaniel's legs. Vivian settled her head back down against Anita's chest, listening to the sluggish beating of a heart in deep sleep. Anita didn't really like them piling on her like this, she worried that if zombies came crawling through the window she wouldn't be able to reach her gun in time. It was a concern that had made them all smile and laugh, until Anita told the graphic story of before she was Nimir-Ra and even Elizabeth's skepticism and Zane's teasing had faltered.  
  
But Anita, the Nimir-Ra, was out of it. Still. They'd cleaned her up as best they could, licking the blood and gore from her body whilst as they called her back from the Edge, but after the Pard had managed to bring her down she'd collapsed. Fallen asleep. It was normal, they rationalized, shifting took a lot out of a person, and it was Anita's first time but-  
  
"Any change?" Cherry asked, her breath curling against Vivian's ear as her own heat added to the soothing blanket of energy filling the room.  
  
"No." Vivian answered while Nathaniel shook his head, long hair sliding with a slithery sound against bare skin as he moved. She held on tighter, breathing in, searching for that recently added musk of leopard that had made Anita their queen in more than name. She should be upset, Vivian knew, that the virus had claimed yet another victim. Some groups called the period after a new shifters first full-moon the Mourning. To never have children. To be considered unsafe and cast out. To lose your humanity. You died at that first transformation, the human you died and another was born to a new people and culture and there was a damned fast learning curve.  
  
Anita had been peripheral. She was a dominate, but she wasn't an alpha, and in shifter minds there was a very clear distinction even if humans (or vampires for that matter) couldn't tell the difference. Couldn't see any reason for difference.  
  
Vivian knew she should be sad, but a selfish part of her wasn't, and she was more ashamed of that fact than anything else. She turned away from Cherry's gaze, letting Anita's tangled hair tickle her nose. There it was. The smell, like a new born kitten, was a real, sharp, and physical sign of change. Anita was their Nimir-Ra. She couldn't just pass them off to the next available Leopard Alpha to pass through St. Louis, not now, not when she was really, truly, Pard.  
  
The queen would feel that when she woke, right?  
  
"Did she, did she really-?" Vivian let the question hang, voice muffled from pressing her face into Anita's shoulder. Cherry, in a way that only Cherry could, got it.  
  
"Zane said so. He went with them to rescue her and said she, she led them back." Led a group of munin controlling zombies to the lupanar while wearing a shape that should have been impossible. Once you were infected, you stayed infected, you held one shape. You didn't... "Can't you feel them?"  
  
It was Nathaniel who whispered the yes, who stared at the shadows as he lay curled up at the end of the bed, listening to the relaxed, contented purrs of the dead.  
  
It's impossible, Vivian thought with faint amusement, but nobody told her that. So she did it anyway. As a rule, the Leopards had never cared for the spirits of their dead, they didn't have the rituals of feasting that the Wolves did, and yet _there they were_. Vivian was so caught up in her own thoughts she almost missed the way the pulse at her ear sped up, and the way the body beside her tensed. Anita's breathing hitched, her arms began to twitch, and the comforting blanket of energy, of Pard, snapped aggressively against Vivian's skin. There was rapid movement under the Nimir-Ra's closed eyelids. "Anita? It's okay. You're not-"  
  
Not what? Not there? Not in danger? Not in any condition to be up and about? What do you say to someone who has been sanctioned by the government to kill monsters, who was kidnapped and likely tortured by a radical branch of said government, and now was what she formerly spent so much time hunting down and executing?  
  
Not human.  
  
Vivian slipped off the bed with Nathaniel, drawing away as Cherry wrestled with their distressed and only half-aware queen. It was an effort to pin her down, to fight the urge to submit, and all the while the slim blonde nurse ducked away from hands curved into, but not sporting, claws. They all kept calling, begging, and slowly pale green eyes opened and focused.  
  
Anita swallowed, gaze haunted, and choked out, "Cherry? What, what happened? Where did-"  
  
Vivian didn't hear what Cherry said, but it seemed to calm their Nimir-Ra down, she was too busy looking into eyes that might never be the rich, earthy, human brown of their birth again. She held herself as Nathaniel produced the Browning that one of the rats had discovered at a gas station, and closed her own eyes. Her beast rolled beneath her skin, curiously trying to reach out, and the Others responded with an invisible, cold touch. The ghosts of whiskers tickled her skin.  
  
Vivian shivered.

They really needed a proper felidae name for them.  
  
On the bed, the Nimir-Ra popped out the magazine of the Browning, checked the rounds, and kicked off her blankets with a glare of disgust.

* * *

  
There was a crack in the world. Something new had entered the place of light and darkness and warmth. It couldn't stay. The Predator had seen to that, but in the leave taking the Something -cold, dead, dirt, ashes in its mouth with sweet lies on lips- had carved out a place. Scarred the landscape-that-was-not. The warmth had burned bright, so angry it was almost painful, and the Predator stalked the very boundaries of the darkness. It sent out tendrils of power to the warmth, echoing the Something and whispering indefinable words. Threats. The Predator had hungered, mirroring the warmth. The world of light and dark was tinged in rust.  
  
It peered at the crack the Something had made -the dead thing that had the Predator snapping at shadows in territorial defiance- and spied the world of color and shape. Careful to remain in the protective corona of the warmth, it inched closer, sensing the echoes that bled through the crack. Vague chattering, claws on stone, wind through trees, and a smell of wet fur and Home.  
  
It'd never had a home, unless it considered the warmth home.  
  
The Predator stilled in the darkness, and turned to the crack, the weak point, and began circling it. Something was coming. They could feel the change like a sudden pressure against their skin, even though neither of them had skin, not in this place. It quivered, and retreated back to the warmth waiting, watching, gathering the echoes around it like a nest. Eroded instincts swam up from the depths, pressing in, and it recalled, vaguely, a word that when properly pronounced was more a growl and hiss than any human speech. It was a word that meant many things, that encapsulated concepts -Strength in numbers, absence of loneliness, place of gathering- more than any physical talisman.  
  
Rodere.

 


	22. The Smoking Gun

He should not be awake. Despite his considerable age strength -possibly a Sourdre de Sang in his own right, but he would rather avoid such circumstances that would confirm it- Jean-Claude should not have been awake. Yet, more and more often, he found himself with time on his hands and the prickling sensation of an unseen sun setting against his back. Whether his recent wakefulness was due to his personal rise in power or that of his Triumvirate had yet to be seen; though the specifics did not matter. As one member's strength grew, so too did that of all of the Triumvirate. His strength, if not his control, was theirs. So Anita and Richard's strength joined together and became his own. If Asher were his right hand, they were his bloody left.

In that same vein, however, their enemies became his enemies as did their troubles. And Anita, the sweetest of his tyrannies, was so very, very good at making trouble. Most she took care of herself with the same ruthless efficiency that he fell in love with, but this was not something - _someone_ \- she could shoot with her little gun. For all the politics of theology in her heart his animator remained Catholic, and Jean-Claude was reasonably sure the Church still considered such things a mortal sin.  
  
"Ma petite, je t'en prie..." She was all spines, broken bits of ill matched pottery, and wild, angry power. Her Browning was in pieces on the bed -pieces of matte black and shiny silver against white silk- and her hand shook as she reached for the spring to begin the process of putting it back together. Again. She'd broken down and repaired the weapon seven times since he'd arrived. She would not look at him, but every now and then her sight would drift to that which he could not - _would not_ \- see. Her thoughts swirled into inky blackness, despair like overripe blackberries, on his tongue. "Stop this. It is not so bad. You are still Anita. _Ma petite._ "  
  
"Am I?" She turned her face to him, but though she still smelled of _Anita_ , of oils, earth and the sharp blend of bitter coffee and brown sugar; the face that looked to him was not. Where Anita had eyes of dark, rich chocolate what stared back at him were a brilliant pools of glacial blue. She was sharp in features and in tone. It was strange. Unsettling, even, but those thoughts he buried beneath a mask centuries had perfected. The petite vampire hunter had once been described as a china doll; soft childish cheeks on porcelain pale skin. Now? Now his little love remained white as snow but her face could only be described as aristocratic. Long, strong features. Pointed nose. Only the masses of raven dark hair left unchanged.  
  
She abandoned her restored Browning, her body stripped of the plump little curves that fit perfectly to his palms, and stalked angrily over to him. " _Am I?!_ "  
  
He put his cold hands on her shoulders, pulled her heat against his bare chest and she let him. He stoked the _ardor_ , curled it around her like a blanket of the softest wool and she shivered. She had no idea, none, of how incredible her power was. A Necromancer, a Master of the dead things, but with an unparalleled ability to _grow_ and _change_ and it was _his_. He trailed his fingers through her hair and down her back. It was obvious what troubled her; that pesky thing, humanity. A lifeline in the best of times, a deadly anchor at worst. "You are you. Always, ma petite. Not her. You could never be her."  
  
She rubbed her face, cat like, against his chest. The action muffled her voice if not the cooling heat she imbued with it.  
  
"I always figured I was a bit of a monster, but at least, I thought, I was _human_. Guess this makes all those snide little remarks, right." Her power flickered against him, calmed.  
  
Jean-Claude heard the echoes of the Thronnos Rokke's previous Lupa in Anita's thoughts. A hard, twisted woman with a power that was unfairly hers. The vampire Janos had been able to twist and deform his body in ways that were unusual for even those of Morte D'Amour's bloodline. Raina could attain a partial transformation as many Alphas might, but had taken it a step further to morph even her human face at will. Shifting one's shape in such a way was not unknown, but it was very, very rare. Legendary.

He stepped back and cupped his servant's face.  
  
He kissed her lips, careful so as not to cut them against his fangs. Am I a Monster? He asked through their bond, speaking to the menagerie within her.  
  
"Yes." Anita answered, dull, turning into his touch.  
  
"Does my being a monster make a difference in that which lies between us? You, Anita, are no more a monster now than you have ever been. What is the shell compared to the soul that resides within?"  
  
Vampires did not have souls -so some _scholars_ said- but she was no vampire.  
  
She shook her head at his words, laughing, a desperate thing that climbed out of the depths of her chest as she clung to him and to their bond. His words of comfort did little for so stubborn a woman; still, they did enough. His power had helped soothe the hysteria that tossed her leopards from the room, but Damien's would have been better. She was always calmer with her own servant at hand. He would have to talk to the senior vampire, and soon. Jean-Claude bowed, pressing his forehead to hers, and offered her his memories. Memories of Anita standing strong and fierce as pride welled in his heart. Memories of dinners shared. Memories of skin-against-skin.  
  
"NO!" Anita pushed him back, turned away, images and emotions sprouting like spring buds. "Stop! Just, stop Jean-Claude! I can't... I can't deal with this right now!"  
  
She marched over to the bed, took up the rebuilt Browning with quickness that came from practice and breathed deep. Her legs were spread, almost a shooting stance, gun held firmly in one hand. She had it pointed at the broken mirror. At herself.  
  
He watched her chest rise and fall, as blue-blue eyes darkened to the deep chocolate she'd inherited from her mother. Broken, brittle shields trembled into existence between them like a patch job over plaster with something cold and quiet leaking out the cracks. "Anita, I have just got you back. I would not risk-"  
  
"That isn't your decision to make, Jean-Claude." The Executioner adjusted her holster, fitting it to the new dimensions, and slipped the Browning into place. She was, in a word, cold. This Anita was the one who had once told him she would kill him. This was the Anita that rode as Death's companion. It was not the Anita he fell in love with, but it was the one that made sure the other survived. "Right now, I can't think about this. I just _can't_. But what I can, what I _know_ , is this."  
  
The smaller gun, the Firestar went to her ankle.  
  
You forget, Jean-Claude growled into her mind as he watched her squeeze her eyes shut while bones shifted under her skin, you are my Human Servant and the Third of our Triumvirate. Ma petite. I would not have you go alone.  
  
A knock came from the door, and the lady Claudia looked in. "Got a message from the Rom."  
  
Thank you, Anita's thoughts brushed against his like a kiss on the cheek.

* * *

 Xander winced as the door slammed shut, the small square _No Soliciting_ sign swinging against frosted glass. It was amazing how some people still lived and breathed Sunnydale syndrome. Even in a world where lycans were an acknowledged minority and the House of Representatives was debating the feasibility of giving vampires the vote denial seemed to be the number one hobby of the average American.

One liked to think that if someone told them there was a high chance of being eaten alive they would take the warning to heart. Xander was pretty sure Uncle Rory had drunkenly mentioned something about floods and boats and Christians too stupid to live, once. He swayed on his feet, glancing sideways to where Buffy stood with her lips parted in a confused amazement that quickly soured into dull rage.  
  
"Oh. My. Giles." Buffy stomped her foot, a dangerous thud against the damp wood of the porch, and yelled while gesturing at the leather coat dwarfing her. "Does this look like a green vest to you?!"  
  
Xander's expression became very much of the ew variety. He rubbed his hands over his arms to ward off goosebumps and unsettled thoughts. "What about me? I don't look like a cookie peddler, do I? Buffy? Buff? Oh best-est-budd in the whole fudged up world?"  
  
The slayer sighed and dropped onto the porch steps, stake twirling around her fingers. Xander scraped the mud off his shoes against a step with more force than necessary. "No, Xander. You don't look like a girl." She bumped his leg with her shoulder. "Lady obviously needs her eyes checked. You look more like a wet dog. Big floppy ears. Cute brown eyes."  
  
"That isn't much better." Xander grumbled. She made it sound like he was a, a _whelp_. "I'm supposed to be a manly hunter guy. The Sundance to your Butch, ah, Buff."  
  
"Xan, you're like... ten. And all of ninety pounds, on a good day. And weren't they criminals? We aren't criminals! We are a highly militant neighborhood watch." She said it like she'd rehearsed it; a more believable and ready explanation for their activities than Archeology Club ever was. Then again it really wasn't all that hard to beat the infamous Archeology Club that only ever had one meeting in two years of existence before Herr Snyder ordered them disband citing waste of school resources.  
  
In eerie unison, the two friends sighed. Two pairs of eyes scanned through the mist of rain for the trickling stream beyond or a break in the clouds. Somewhere a clock was ticking, but they didn't have much in the way of options. Like always. The only bright spot Xander could see was the 98.09% chance Jack wasn't planning to open a gateway to Hell.  
  
"Tell me you weren't just thinking about the best way to sneak into the house... _criminal._ " Xander called in a teasing tone as he pulled a soggy map of Missouri from his jacket pocket, carefully unfolding it in the reprieve offered by the overhang of the colonial style porch. He had to be careful as he pried the folds apart. The thin, wet paper was almost as hard to work with as phyllo dough as the material clung to itself. Moisture beaded between layers like glue. Once he'd gotten the thing spread he made a small notation, ignoring the way the ink was absorbed and bleed over the saturated paper. "Because that is breaking-and-entering with intent to loiter. This is the fifth house we've checked and the only one occupied. The next closest property is half an hour away: if Willow and Oz get in trouble we'd never be able to reach them."  
  
"Which means we're stuck. Sunnydale was so much easier to patrol! I could get from the airport to school in thirty minutes at a high sprint."  
  
"There's always the indirect approach. And we are Scoobies. You're you and I'm, uh, me."  
  
Buffy turned to face him, resigned, fist resting in challenge on her upturned palm.  
  
"Best three out of five?"

* * *

_"This is a Beta-Three priority assignment. Classification: Shifter. Breed: Non-Specific."_

  
The call came in as it always did; five minutes past two with the sun swaddled in silk sheets of midnight and shadow. It was a call he'd been expecting, and if he had to tell that slippery treasure called truth it was a job he would have taken on pro bono. Edward didn't smile as he drove his ecology destroying Hummer past speed limits and state boarders, plates disguised by layers of dirt, but Ted would have. Edward listened to BBC radio plays as mud-caked tires ate up the miles and brought him closer and closer to Saint Louis and the second largest payout he'd ever receive, but it was rare that a Beta assignment came down the pike.  
  
Ted was looking into a job in Oregon that would pay much less. In Agency terms not even a Delta; barely an Echo. A little girl that was most likely plain-Jane human with a lucky right hook and a vindictive ex. Someone else would look into it, a desperate amateur would take it, and Ted would find himself that much richer.  
  
Edward passed the county limit just as Harker confronted the Count on his imprisonment. Edward wet his lips on a bottle of water and attempted to wrap his tongue around the inflections and intonations of the young lawyer. His British was alright, passable, to those from the states but to a native speaker he was still lacking something. He still sounded something like an American trying to be British, but if he wanted to sell the Ned Foster persona this summer he needed a perfect, smooth flow of Queen's English. Still too much East End. Well, he had time, and Peter was yet young enough with a knack for languages and a fighting instinct that would serve him well.  
  
Donna didn't approve, though she herself started taking lessons at the local firing range and had asked Ted to pick her out something small and simple. He'd given her a .22 Ruger but the nightmares hadn't stopped. Peter didn't get nightmares. The boy didn't dream. Little Becca insisted on digging her night light out of the closet, and kept asking when she was going to get to be a flower girl.  
  
Edward's hands flexed where they griped the steering wheel. Thunder roared overhead and lightning lit the clouds, but the windows refused to rattle. Dracula laughed through the speakers, the voice of David Suchet deep and smug and perfectly Transylvanian. Ted hated his family being brought into the darker side of the bounty hunting business. Donna had never met Edward. She knew Ted. She loved Ted with his cowboy hats and down-home goodness that would do a Duke boy proud.

Ted was bounty hunter, but not in the sense of bail enforcement. He was someone who hunted down the bad guys that the cops couldn't or wouldn't bring to justice â€“ shapeshifers, witches, those who used money like a shield. In one way, as Becca naively put it, a superhero. But Donna had never met Edward, not even when he'd come with guns blazing to get her back, because somewhere, somehow, a hurt widow who would take the smallest of scraps became more than an accessory to the persona. Edward could only feel a cold practicality about it all. Edward had used the incident to postpone the wedding, but Ted noticed the way Donna would twist the engagement ring on her finger, and how Peter hid knives. Poorly. The shiny veneer was flaking off. Edward would have to wait and see what was beneath. Would they bend or break?  
  
Did he want them to?  
  
Edward turned off of the interstate, steamrolling over the blacktop as his eyes caught a flash of white lightning and parts of deer hanging like Christmas ornaments. Playtime, and yet... he wondered at the odd pressure in his stomach. It wasn't the flutter of anticipation, of questioning if this night was the night that Death finally died... death wasn't a mystery, and better to be in some monster's belly than bleed out slowly or become one of the freaks himself.  
  
But if Edward did die, and Ted didn't make it back to New Mexico... Peter was a good kid. In a few years he would be a good man.  
  
Edward's thumb rubbed the soft skin of his ring finger, the space oddly blank as Ted's gold band rested, safe and concealed, against his chest where Anita might wear her cross.  
  
He didn't think she was dead. The call had dropped, but everyone in the community knew: if there was ever a hit out on The Executioner, Death had dibs.

...but then what would they tell Donna?

* * *

The community was filled with half-finished housing and stretches of bare dirt; grass and topsoil picked clean for the houses to be. A creek ran through the site, though what had once been a trickle of water had steadily been expanded by Big Cat's and pipes. Willow's nose wrinkled in irritation as she made her way across muddy ground, each step accompanied by the squalsh of her shoes. The rain kept on keeping on, big fat drops coming in a slow but steady and soaking pace. It was hard going, her calves only barely recovered from the hiking and the running of the past week, but Oz's warm hand was in hers, keeping her balanced. They walked, senses alert, Willow's head bowed in an attempt to keep track of her sliding feet. She was a tiny bit jealous of her werewolf. Not once did Oz slip, not even after a disastrous stumble involving a shoe nearly stolen by the wet, sucking bosom of mother nature. As it was her left shoe was ruined and no amount of spot remover was going to remove the sensation of grubs squished between toes from her mind.  
  
Of course Willow knew it wasn't really grubs, but the imagery was still there. Slimy, and so not satisfying.  
  
Willow sneezed, and wiping her nose with a damp finger did little but smear sneeze and snot over her face. She was going to catch a cold from this.  
  
"Anything?" The sopping witch asked while climbing onto a slab of concrete. Marked pipes stuck out at intervals for future plumbing, and the tarp-secured wood pile suggested an aborted frame. She shed a layer of clay like mud against the cement and her feet felt ten pounds lighter. Oz crouched at her side, eyes narrowed against the rain as he scanned the gray skies. "Maybe Jack decided to stay in. Weather's too depressing for a murder."  
  
"Possible. I'm getting... something. But I can't tell if it is recent or old. Everything is faint. Diluted, like a watercolor." Oz then wrinkled his own nose and sneezed. It was an impossibly cute sneeze, very much not like her own. Oz sighed and shook himself. Clouds rumbled discontentedly overhead. Golden eyes watched the sky through a film of frustration. "This is so much suckage. All I can smell is cold, wet mud. All I see is cold, wet mud. And when I close my eyes and try to listen all I get is the pit-pat of rain falling on cold, wet mud. Which isn't so bad if you don't mind cold, wet mud."  
  
"Buffy's probably not doing much better." The witch commented, breathing on her chilled fingers and snapping them to generate heat enough for a spark. "But I bet she's dry. _Are Incindie._ "  
  
A pale blue flame blossomed in each hand, molten water, and Willow passed one to Oz. They didn't burn, only warmed, and her boyfriend accepted his gracefully. He prodded it with a finger like one would the Pillsbury Doughboy, a smile lighting up his amber eyes. Steam rose from the bluebells like they were rocks in a sauna when a particularly large raindrop hit them.  
  
Without warning the Oz's cheer died. He tensed, his hands running down Willow's swinging legs to still her feet, voice questioning. "Was that you?"  
  
"Oz..." Willow slowly turned, gaze taking in the development they'd crossed, all the little nooks and crannies and dirt piles, hand slowly clenching as the blue faded from her fire, condensing into a marble of gold-veined red. The tarp was shifting, but it wasn't from the weight of the rain that had gathered in the dips of the material. A clawed, dark hand slid out from beneath the covering. Attached to the hand was a long, too long, furred arm. A disjointed jaw emerged, rain spilling in and spilling out, and he, she, _it_ roared. The sound of the Beast merged with the breaking of thunder.

The cry of a primal god.  
  
A miniature sun blasted toward the creature. The mud-dappled body snaked into the rain trailing steam, limbs plunging into the soft earth for purchase as it dodged the super-heated ball of light, but Oz was already up and running with Willow slung over his shoulder as she screamed at their pursuer. Tiny, conjured suns sailed past the Beast to strike the tarp, vaporizing plastic, sending burnt and broken wood flying as a shock wave pushed them all to the ground.  
  
"Oz! Oz!" Willow shouted, spots dancing in her eyes as she scrambled for a weapon. The radio was gone, lost somewhere amongst the debris. _Parva sol_ had been more powerful than expected, an understatement, but still not strong enough as the monster flicked catish ears and swayed, shaggy legs shaking like a newborn foal's. Great shards of splintered lumber slowly wormed their way out of fur and flesh like fibrous pimples being popped. Willow's voice screeched in panic. "OZ!"  
  
"There's too many. We aren't prepared for this." Oz's voice sounded, a low growl in her ear. Willow nodded, head jerking as she flexed her hand. Despite the rain, slowed now a light drizzle, the skin of her palm was hot and dry and chapped. More creatures were appearing out of the shadows and muck so dirty it was almost as if the ground itself were turning against them. The sliding of claws against wood, and a thing with no legs but two powerful arms and a whipping snake tail dropped from a skeletal roof. "I'd say it's time for the better part of valor."  
  
" _I-I-Incindie, Minimus._ " Another mote of super-heated light appeared, this one no bigger than a bead of duck shot. " _Multiplis._ "  
  
A single bead became two, became four, eight, sixteen. All hovering and steaming and circling the air above her hands as so many deadly fireflies trapped in an intangible jar. Willow wavered, falling back against Oz as the heat and energy summoned fought against her control. Yelling, she flung them up into the air where they buzzed before scattering in a wide circle. Mud steamed, hot earth painted the sky, and the monsters screeched startlement and anger.  
  
With a splorsh something hot, sticky, and vaguely copper-scented washed Willow's back. There was a sneeze, and hot, panting breath misted in the air. Madness and rage swarmed in the cat-thing's eyes as it leapt, and Oz rushed to engage. The diminutive red head whirled around, lower lip pinned between her teeth as she tried to block out the snarling and snapping and flesh-rending. Her blade glowed. A downward slash saw a brown woman-lizard leaping away as a severed tongue dropped into a pile of bricks. Willow fell to one knee, stomach turning as her head pulsed. Fire drained like nothing else, not air or water or light. It ate. It demanded its pound of flesh, and the little witch couldn't keep up. She coughed.  
  
Red drops decorated her hand like rose petals.  
  
Oz leapt away from the mauled, shredded cat and launched himself at another wolf, and the accompanying crack of a spine snapping sounded loud and clear. He rolled to his feet, shook off the mud, and dipped a shoulder.  
  
Knife clutched in between her teeth, heart hammering, Willow clambered atop while gripping a bony protrusion for leverage.  
  
Oz bolted, and it took everything Willow had to stay on.

* * *

With her own ride confiscated as evidence, Anita had commandeered one of Jean-Claude's cars. The vampire himself didn't drive but he kept an extensive stable of both personal and company vehicles at the Circus. The Jeep Wrangler they were now using was still an utter mess from the last engagement, and when they hit the highway Anita could watch good sized chunks of dirt fly off and wetly bounce into the gray distance. In the seat beside her, safely buckled because even vampire healing wouldn't help with a severed head or a pierced heart - _memories, bubbling up from her stomach, warm and too sticky, memories not her own, of a car, cars, flipping and burning and screaming for help and she was beating on the window, except that hadn't happened, but it... did, and burning flesh, and hands, and_ \- Jean-Claude's hand on her arm; cold touch of reality to reel her back in.

  
Anita breathed in, held it, and let it out. Swallowed the sour memories back, walled them up, embraced the cold and let her power be her shield. She did not have the time to mourn the dead, or let them mourn themselves. The only time that could be spared was for the living.  
  
The Executioner glanced from the road to the vampire grounding her. His hand moved, gently rubbing her thigh, but most of his attention was on the flashing roads and the voice in his ear.

"Qui." He nodded, face blanking into the perfect Gaelic politician. Anita couldn't hear what the caller was saying, but from Jean-Claude's reaction it wasn't something he was particularly happy about. "I understand. But the Accords do not protect those who do not live by them, and the rights of hospitality cannot be applied if they do not accept them."  
  
Silence, and then Jean-Claude huffed; a small little self-depreciating laugh. "Indeed. If what your King believes is true, that may work. And it does get so tiring hiding the bodies."  
  
Anita's eyes narrowed, "Jean-Claud..."  
  
"Agreed." The vampire said with finality before ending the call and disappearing the phone. "Take the next Exit, ma petite."  
  
Anita turned the wheel with her palm, fighting the urge to correct as the wheels slid through puddled water and narrowly missed the guardrail. "Don't distract me! That was vampire politics, wasn't it?" Her stomach clenched. "Fuck. Which Council member is coming, this time, and how many body bags am I going to need to order?"  
  
"Politics, yes, but not the Council. The various Kings and Queens of the city have been discussing what is best for the children -supernatural as they are- and have come to an accord. Nothing you need to worry about."  
  
"What are you planning to do, pass them around like some kind of time share? And what's this hospitality bullshit you mentioned?"  
  
"It is not bullshit." Jean-Claude's attention focused on a point ahead, seemingly dismissing her. Thunder rumbled overhead, and her skin broke out in goosebumps. Anita grit her teeth and put on the gas. Jean-Claude jerked in his seat, eyes widening as her power suddenly flooded the compartment, soothing and exciting all at once. "Anita-!"  
  
She didn't have time to scream. A shadow in the road, and Jean-Claude's arm was like a steel bar against her stomach holding her in place as metal crunched and glass scattered. The Jeep spun like a pinwheel, skidding off the road slamming to a stop against the bruised tree line.  
  
Stressed metal groaned. Spots danced before her eyes like a cloud of gnats and every breath hurt.  
  
The memory-scent of Hypnotique and blood flashed, sudden and brilliant and Anita shuddered, pulling back into the now with no small effort. Her mother had been kind, and gentle, and Anita had loved her with everything she had. Her mother had left her, had died. The smell of gasoline was strong; the tank must have cracked. Blood stung her left eye. Through the clearing haze she could see punctures in the front and the crumpled depression of where a large body had hit.  
  
Anita began to struggle, shaking hands fumbling for the release of her seat belt before Jean-Claude's own ripped it right out of the seat. She was not kind, or gentle. She was not her mother. She was - _Nimir-Ra. Lupa. Regina... Hunter, Executioner. Necromancer._ \- herself. She was Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, and she would not die here. Not when there were people out there who needed her. She let Jean-Claude guide her by shoulder as she crawled out of the broken window, clambering over the front of the Jeep and standing on shaking legs.  
  
"Mother of God." Anita coughed, the last pangs of cracked ribs healing.  
  
Lying in the middle of the road, almost twice the size of a Shetland pony, was a wolf. Only, it couldn't be a wolf. The front limbs were just a bit too long, as were the digits of its paws. Strange, off white, bony growths were interspersed along the spine, armor-like. The great, shaggy head lolled, and a pair of short, curved horns turned to face her. Eyes like molten gold, like hellfire blinked at her. It was getting up.  
  
The Browning was in her hand. Instinct made her raise it.  
  
Monstrous howls, real or imagined, filled her ears.  
  
Silence.  
  
**" _OZ!!!!!_ "**


	23. The Female of the Species

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a shot if you recognize a turn of phrase. Thanks everyone who has kept poking me about this story! I am determined to finish!
> 
> Also, does anyone know why all my formatting was kept except for the quotation marks? Those were a pain to put back in.

Despite their growing distance, Veronica would loudly commiserate with Anita on the unfairness of society on the female attire. It always came down to a choice between professionalism and practicality. What would be practical in the scattered storms and cracked pavement was Nike. What would be professional were the heels that made her legs look wonderfully longer than they were, but also had a habit of getting stuck heel first in the soft earth.  
  
There was also the fact that Ronnie had never quite gotten the hang of running in stilettos.  
  
Veronica very carefully pulled off of Olive Street and into one of the few free visitors parking spots of the St. Louis Police Department and considered her options. She'd tried calling Louie, but he wasn't picking up. Anita, a long shot at the best of times, had gone straight to machine and not even one of her new roommates had called back. Ronnie sighed, undid her seat belt, gathered her papers, and exited her Taurus with head held high and heels clicking against the asphalt in a practiced no-nonsense rhythm.  
  
She might not have been able to actually run in them, but she could sure as hell make it look like she could.  
  
The building was new to law enforcement; an expanded budget as well as expanding and surprisingly reputable departments like RPIT having forced the city's hand. Row after row of windows reflected water logged streets like tired, jaded eyes. Truthfully, it wasn't all that much different from the old police headquarters. A bit taller, a bit wider, and a bit more post-modern polish, but the heart was still gray brick and glass rising up from the street. She caught the eye of a beleaguered uniform entering and with a flash of teeth stormed right past him.  
  
The lack of stairs leading to the front doors on the new building was a distinct plus. Her arches hated stairs, and the lack of obstacles meant her momentum wasn't slowed in the least. The usual throng of officers, perps, witnesses, and annoyed citizens moved from her path like particularly slow witted bowling pins while her clacking heels sounded out a villainous laughter behind her.  
  
"Miss Simms!" A familiar face atop a white button blouse and navy tie called out in surprise. Ronnie approached the front desk and greeted Gwendolyn Quinn. The secretary was nearly two decades her senior and yet always managed to give the impression that the PI was the older of the two. "Have you seen the news?"  
  
"Who hasn't?"  
  
The other woman chattered while passing over a pen for Veronica to sign the logbook. She swiveled in her chair back to her computer and began printing out a pass with eyebrows raised in question. "Not S.C.U?"  
  
Ronnie shook her head. "No cheating spouses today, small mercy."  
  
Gwen's smile was small, and sweet. It made her cheeks dimple. "That's good, though I don't know how much time R.P.I.T. can give you." Her voice went low as blue eyes bounced around the other occupants of the room. "I heard Sargent Storr is on forced leave, and this on top of everything else."  
  
Ronnie whistled. Anita had mentioned the man's anger issues once or twice, and how it made it harder for her to do her own job. "Shiiiit. Did he punch someone in the face- _no._ Really? Fuck."  
  
Gwen's expression was all the confirmation a seasoned detective like herself needed. The blonde sucked in a breath between her teeth and weighed her options. She didn't actually know anyone in the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team. She doubted they would trust her, what, intuition? Most of her contact with the cops came from either checking criminal records during the coarse of an investigation, and working with Sex Crimes or Drug Trafficking as the situation arose. Of the two of them, Anita had always been the one to pick up anything involving the _mundana minus_ while sending runaways and questionable content Ronnie's way.  
  
It was a good system. Everyone got paid, everyone got to do what they did best. Manicured nails drummed briefly along the counter before taking up the temporary pass and clipping it to her suit jacket.  
  
"Third floor?" Ronnie asked, just to be sure. At the old headquarters the Spook Squad had been forced to share basement space with IT. That had been back when the division was shiny and new and full of people that were derogatorily referred to as the Suicide Squad by less kind department heads. Now they had their own holding cells and everything! Though, they kinda needed the reinforced rooms considering their prisoners regularly benched trucks.  
  
Gwen nodded, still smiling that same pleasant smile while gesturing to the elevators on the other side of the metal detector. For a moment Ronnie hesitated. Louis had asked her to look into the St. Peter's kids, but since she couldn't get ahold of him shouldn't she go to Missing Persons? No, she told herself with the reassuring drumbeat of her high heels, keep shifter business and people business separate. It is what Louie would want.  
  
It was what Anita would do.  
  
Ronnie moved with purpose, her notes and maps tucked under one arm, while the other swung freely at her side in the event she needed to draw her Colt. Of course, her gun was stashed back in the Taurus but old habits died hard. The light bulbs above her head lit the way with an incongruous, happy yellow so pale it was almost white. The light didn't care about the dark rings under everyone's eyes, the hushed whispers, or fevered air of anger and desperation clinging to the halls.  
  
Ronnie marched. Click-click- _Boom._ She beamed as she slammed her folder down on the first desk of RPIT's bullpen. It also happened to be the desk with a uniformed officer passed out and drooling into a pool on his calendar. The man, McNab according to his name tag, fell right out of his chair with a shout, flailing, as every other person in the room turned to look at them.  
  
The investigator straightened her jacket and took stock of her audience; a few hands had drifted to sidearms. Her temp pass gleamed from her lapel. Professional. "Good Afternoon Officers. I need to speak to Lieutenant Zebrowski. Officer... McNab? Would you kindly show me to him."  
  
"Ma'am?"  
  
The smile she turned on the young man wouldn't have melted butter, but her eyes warmed as she took in an approaching form's slim, cut figure. A gray vest hugged his torso, and rolled up white sleeves showed off arms she wouldn't mind hugging herself. He held out a hand expectantly, "Detective Perry. And you are?"  
  
Tall, dark, and handsome had a good handshake, firm but not intimidating, and as the distance closed Ronnie noted that while he cleaned up especially well there was a redness around his eyes that pointed toward too many hours squinting at blocky lettering and not enough sleeping. Reputable it may now be, but RPIT was still understaffed even before St. Louis started getting flooded with therianthropes and tiny Rambos. Hopefully, she could assist with the later. "Detective Veronica Simms, but my friends call me Ronnie."  
  
"Detective Simms." Was that a slight stiffness in his shoulders, or just the way his shirt settled as he stepped out of the handshake? "I apologize, but I don't recognize you. Which unit are you with?"  
  
"Private Sector, actually, but we have a mutual acquaintance in Anita Blake. I have some information regarding the persons of interest? I tried calling but I can't seem to get hold of her..." Ronnie trailed off as the lines around the younger man's eyes deepened and his lips pressed together. His gaze went past her, a number of heads ducked back into their own cubicles, and he seemed to come to a decision.  
  
"Lt. Zebrowski is currently overseeing a crime scene, if you would accompany me Detective Simms?"   
  
"Ronnie, please." She swept up her packet and followed him through the winding rows of desks that were not so different from her own. Notes and memos were pinned to the walls of individual cubicles, here and there a potted plant tried in vain to spruce up the place, and colorful sticky notes ringed computer monitors like fish scales. At one desk a teen with eyes too green to be human was curled up with a blanket sniffling as a LEO argued over the phone. As the door shut behind them Ronnie noted that Detective Perry's office was nothing like the warren of controlled chaos they'd had to pass through to reach it. A coat rack on the other side of the small room held the third piece to his suit, and as he paced over to his desk Ronnie couldn't help but admire the neatness of it all.  
  
Maybe it was a coping mechanism?  
  
"Miss Simms, I'm sorry to say that no one knows where Miss Blake is. She went missing nearly forty-eight hours ago and hasn't been heard from since."  
  
"No." Ronnie denied. Sure, they hadn't really talked in months and maybe she was a bit more than judgmental when it came to her friend's choice in lovers but- wouldn't Louie have told her? He was friends with Richard, and Richard was tied up in the metaphysical shit so he would have to know unless... "No."  
  
She hadn't been able to reach Louie, either. Even the emergency number for the Rodere switchboard she wasn't technically supposed to have had put her on hold.  
  
For a dangerous second she wobbled on the knife's edge of her stilettos. She inhaled, gripped her information to her chest, and lifted her chin. "I see. Nevertheless, I was contracted to look into the St. Peters break out and attendant events. I discovered some information that may be useful to your own investigations."  
  
They didn't need to know just who had contracted her. Let them think it was Anita. The woman was closed mouthed enough for it to be possible. It might give her an in to whatever investigation was going toward the animator's own whereabouts. Clive Perry's sighed and nodded. He picked up his phone and dialed an extension. "Detective Reynolds. Would you come down to my office? And if you see Merlioni grab him, too... thank you."

"Reynolds... Tammy Reynolds? Anita has mentioned her once or twice." And in not so flattering terms. "Witch?"  
  
Perry nodded. "Only one on the force, at the moment. What do you have?"  
  
Ronnie's heels gave three clear, strong clicks as she moved to the desk and began laying out her maps and print outs. "I started looking into the kids motives, but quickly realized the picture was bigger than that. Normal kids don't plan break outs," she paused for a moment before grinning ruefully. "Well, they do but they don't follow through. Most kids, anyway. It was them dumping their getaway car in the river that made me connect the dots. Why would they run away, only to circle back around?"  
  
The office door opened with a squeak and a rattling sway of blinds behind her.  
  
"Now cross reference with the Swamp Thing sightings. Missouri has the goddamn Mississippi acting as border control, not to mention the Missouri River itself and countless tributaries criss-crossing the land. Every attack has been near a body of water."  
  
"She's right." A softer, shaking voice called. The brunette that spoke looked pale, same tired rings around her eyes as all the other cops as she stared at the display Ronnie had spread out on the desk. One hand reached up to clutch at the cross pendant hanging around her throat. "I... I felt..."  
  
"Tammy?"  
  
The witch licked her lips and looked between the other two detectives with something that might have been fear. A chipped fingernail tapped against one of the circled areas Ronnie had thought would be a likely attack site. "Chesterfield. Most of the city butts up against the Missouri, and I felt... Clive. I've stood in a room with pissed off centuries old vampires and I have never, ever felt the kind of raw power that hit me a few minutes ago. It was coming from that direction."  
  
"The attacks have mostly been in remote areas." Perry pointed out with concern as his office door admitted more people. "We don't even know if whatever you felt was related, we've all been running on fumes, even if this thing has been using the waterways as transportation what is to stop it from hitting the gulf by now?"  
  
"Shifters, of any flavor, run in packs. Humans are social creatures and this just gets dialed up to eleven when you throw in animal instinct." Ronnie tucked a stray blonde strand back as several pairs of eyes turned to her. What? It helped having a boyfriend that specialized in biology and was a shifter himself. "Whatever this thing is, it is strong and probably has a pack of its own to feed and care for. That means it has to take its time and avoid drawing too much attention. I optioned Chesterfield due to the large estates, not many people just wandering around like happy meals on legs. There is also the new development that started last month- with this weather it'd be empty enough for an army to hide if they're careful."  
  
Perry nodded as his eyes turned to frozen coals. Reynolds closed hers and whispered a soft prayer before stating, "If we take 64 we can reach the city limits in less than twenty minutes."

* * *

  
A pile of meat, blood, and bone lay slumped on the highway, and its name was Oz. His own ragged, hard breathing was all the werewolf could hear as pain ripped through his nerves and scrambled his senses. It was as though he'd knocked his funny bone on a doorframe, only it wasn't his humerus but his twice cursed cranium that had been smacked and not by a doorframe but an angry war hammer. Oz squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the itch just above his right. Was he supposed to be doing something?  
  
A bonfire was screaming his name.  
  
Slowly, Oz blinked and lolled his head toward the raging inferno that stood less than a yard from himself. His vision was crap at the moment, the bit of silver caught in the subcutaneous bone plating of his skull was as distracting as a pus filled sore, but in his transformed state Willow was a beacon that burned for his attention. Further along the street, closer to the metal beast - _car_ \- an equally massive storm of conflicting heat and deathly chill swirled about. Two bells howled softly, calling, one the echo of the other and he laboriously gathered hard paws beneath him. Running was important, running was good... but sitting was easier. Water puddled on the road and his tongue lapped at it before thought could prelude action. Gravity drew a line of dark, dark blood down his muzzle to drip in the water.  
  
He was thirsty. His muscles were overheated. His head ached.  
  
And _everything_ was so loud.  
  
Golden eyes peered through the drizzle to see a small hand outstretched as the wreck of a jeep crashed back to earth. Scattered shards of glass and chunks of metal rained down half a second behind. Everyone looks so different with their hair plastered to their heads, the irreverent thought fluttered through the werewolf like a butterfly through a field of wildflowers. Willow's seemed to be drifting in the wind, but it was too heavy, too wet, the effect resulting in something like confused snakes twining around his witch's head. A vampire was holding the hurricane, having tackled her to the ground before the raw magic Willow had thrown could land, but it was looking at Oz. Blue-blue fires burned, soothed, _called..._  
  
"Oz!" Willow's voice echoed oddly, as if one of his ears had some sort of broadcasting delay.  
  
The wolf shook the last of the cobwebs from his vision in a wave of movement stretching from nose to tail tip, and swiveled to face the desperate - _wrong_ \- expression of his mate. She was pale - _cold_ \- her hair darkened - _black_ \- as rain soaked her to the bone and her equally damp coat added ten pounds of weight onto her small, skinny shoulders. Eyes like fathomless ink pools stared at him. Burning suns stared right back.  
  
Willow's lips trembled, "I... I thought she killed you..."  
  
'Tis only a flesh wound, he would have liked to say. Lack of lips and an overabundance of teeth made doing so difficult. Instead, Oz stepped closer and butted his head against Willow's chest. She sniffled and scrabbled at the gash in his bone plates before wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the ruff. Oz panted and watched the two adults stand, a dead hand clamped around the live one that held a gun. Twin flames danced and called and promised and Willow held him steady, stilling his paws.  
  
Howls filled his mind. Filled his _ears_.  
  
Ah. Right.  
  
What little lead they'd gained on the horde through a tactical retreat had vanished with the initial were-wrangler collision. Monsters broke from the trees like murderous cheese through a grater. Lions and tigers and bears-  
  
"...Oh my." A black and white blur of frost raced forward and ripped the entire lower jaw off of some sort of cat creature. It gurgled, a gush of red spraying into the air, and blood finished soaking what clothing nature had not. A dagger appeared in the vampire's hand, and quickly found itself buried in an eye only be twisted free and thrust into a retreating flank.  
  
In turn, Oz rounded on his own share of opponents, roaring in pain and anger. Claws carved into his still tender side. He twisted free as an intangible furnace within surged, blood pouring to lubricate re-knitting flesh. Willow snarled, and in that moment it was impossible to tell which of them was the animal and which the human. Oz crunched the barbed tail of the manticore between his jaws, swallowed, suppressed a shiver as meat filled his stomach and his regeneration redoubled its efforts at filling the steaming gaps in his side.  
  
The first time he ever woke nude in the woods, stomach full, he'd assumed it had been the end result of one of Devon's after parties. He still could not recall that first transformation. Gradually, though, memories filtered in. Running. Moonlight. Salt in the wind. A small, safe den that smelt of books and strawberries. Flossing fur out of his teeth.  
  
Oz watched from behind his wolf's eyes as a severed head flopped on the ground and a fanged mouth opened and closed reflexively. Metal flashed. Blue flames left after images in the rain as the unusually elegant Master of the City moved between monsters in a true danse macabre.  
  
Furred and feathered bodies jerked in mid air as bullets tore through them, the hurricane given form dodging around their maddened enemies as the two witches held a rushed, angry, shouted conversation that was more screaming than discussion. Oz, had he his human face, would have frowned. There was a change in the tempo of howling, hissing, screaming... He rumbled unhappily, and he lowered a shoulder managing to catch too-long bear claws on his inbuilt armor instead of his face. Still, the things dug in surprisingly deep.  
  
A spear of force and fire traced through the air, cutting right through the werebear as Oz shook free, and was soon followed by yet more bullets. He could taste the silver as one grazed his muzzle. His head throbbed worse than a hangover.  
  
Not the backup I was hoping for, Oz thought as he reared back a leg and kicked a bone spur through another beast's stomach, but it'll do.

* * *

  
Buffy tried to keep to the thick tufts of crabgrass as she followed what once upon a time had been a deer trail, or at least she assumed that was what it was. The way was so narrow that frequently sprigs of new growth left their damp, slimy touch against her cheek, her hands, and she wrinkled her nose in an aborted sniffle. Grand old oaks, the only species Buffy could actually name, and other trees stretched high over her head with branches interlocking like nature's own parasol. It kept the worst of the still falling rain off, her leather coat kept her relatively warm, but drips of water occasionally slipped under the collar and down her back forcing a full body shiver.  
  
Something low in her body clenched. The blonde leaned to the side, one small hand coming up to brace against a wounded tree, and carefully pressed her stake wielding hand to her middle. The point was away, of course, but the sudden spike of pain that flared almost made her want to drive it inside. A little trickle of dirty water flowed down the center of the trail and Buffy kept her attention on the soft tinking of water and falling leaves until the pain passed.  
  
"Not fair." She growled, sparing a single glare skyward before pushing off the tree, dislodging the looser bits of bark as she did so. "I don't even have boobs yet."  
  
Buffy resumed her trek, and not for the first time desperately stomped down on the memories that had been creeping up more and more ever since she met the Master of the City. St. Louis was nothing like Sunnydale. St. Louis, she was coming to find, was more like Los Angeles. For all that Buffy was a city girl born and raised in LA, it was not a good comparison.  
  
Her first Watcher had died in Los Angeles.  
  
The name left her lips breathless, nostalgic. He hadn't been like Giles, who she also missed, but he had been a father to her when her own was busy chasing his secretary and her new powers seemingly had a mind of their own. Hell, the old guy had wanted to design and make shoes before his family calling sucked him in. They would have been a great team! Him a famous designer and she his favorite model. Ruling the catwalk by day - slaying the vamps by night!  
  
Lothos killed him. And then she killed Lothos. I pried him out of my skull, Buffy thought to herself, I went to the quiet, cold place inside where the music couldn't reach and I _killed_ him and all his court.  
  
Buffy wriggled her toes in her boots before making a leap that sent her toward a particularly large tree trunk. She left a muddy smear behind as her foot landed only to springboard off, twisting midair, finally landing on the far side of a length of boggy mud from which no convenient cobblestones of crabgrass grew. The slayer huffed and peered at the stripe of pale light in the distance as she checked her weapons.  
  
Her cheeks flushed and her insides throbbed. Her stomach grumbled. For a moment she thought she'd seen something-  
  
"Fred to Daphne. Report in. Over." Xander's voice crackled from her pocket. Buffy rolled her eyes and reached for the bulky radio. Her head stayed on a swivel as she thumbed the talk button.  
  
"I'm never going to get rid of that name, am I? Over."   
  
The blonde frowned and exchanged stake for crossbow. "But it fits so well! Uh, over."  
  
"I think you're just mad that I kicked your butt. Over." She slowly turned in a full circle, shoulders tense. It could be nothing. It was probably nothing. St. Louis wasn't Sunnydale; it was too big, too empty, and too damn wet. A small bird winged out of a bramble covered bush and vanished into the treetops.  
  
"You always pick scissors!" Xander grumbled. "Always. Like the time you stabbed that... fangora?  Demon in the throat. A perfectly good nail gun was sitting right there and you went for the scissors."  
  
"Maybe it was all part of my master plan to lure you into a false sense of security. You're sure you haven't seen anything?" Buffy paused. "Heard anything?"  
  
A loud garble of sound came from the radio before Xander's voice came through. "All's quiet on the western front. Mrs. Gluten Free Sugar Hater turned on a few lights upstairs, but that's it. Maybe Jack caught a cold last time he went out and is staying home with some Campbells."  
  
"That's where I'd rather be," she grumbled. "With some of Giles' ginger tea."  
  
As Buffy neared the treeline the path she was following widened, small wheel like impressions clear even in the rain softened earth. Dirt bikes? There was a two story home in the middle of a sea of grass, though one of the windows looked to be broken. Buffy eyed the yellow-green stalks wearily. Her skin prickled at the thought of hidden stickers and bloodsuckers that were arguably worse than vampires.  
  
Buffy had learned more about the outdoors in a month than in her whole life before. Thank the goddess for hippie parents and soldier training.  
  
"Gonna need to change socks soon." Buffy commented, though she didn't press the button that would let Xander hear her. Instead, even as her guts twisted in on themselves in warning the slayer was turning to face the threat. The radio fell to the ground, discarded, and the crossbow came up. She fired, and the only change in her expression was the width of her eyes as she took in the thing that lunged from the trees.  
  
Buffy dodged as the body careened past, her bolt firmly lodged in a torso covered in a thick alligator like hide. The monster's momentum carried it forward, but the small girl didn't have time to celebrate. Buffy pressed herself flat as a tail like a particularly flexible tree whipped behind the creature, the Jack-in-the-Box, as it dug furrows in the earth with its, with his claws.  
  
He was very much male.  
  
Buffy wrinkled her nose as she loaded and loosed the next crossbow bolt. "Nudist colony is _that_ way."  
  
"Little bunny has spirit." The creature's mouth was too long, too wide, and couldn't quite close as it laughed. A clawed paw snatched Buffy's second bolt from the air and surprisingly dexterous digits twirled the metal shaft around before tossing it point first into the ground. Hairless head tilted, and slit nostrils flared wide. The mottled, ridged hands flexed and the claws extended in a way that no reptiles' could. "You smell..."  
  
"Well, you could use some moisturizer but-" Buffy's retort was cut off by an explosion of sound as that ridiculous tail shot out and turned a tree trunk into kindling. Bright, brief flares of sensation came from her cheek as splinters slammed against her skin, some sinking in while others merely fell as gravity and force dictated. Buffy grit her teeth and blocked a downward swipe of claws, the string of her crossbow twanging as talons lodged in the reinforced wood, and when he came around in a swipe with the other her boot smashed into his wrist.  
  
Buffy gasped as the moment of inattention allowed switchblade like claws to tag her shoulder, ripping through her coat, _Angel's_ coat, and she was hard pressed to push that grasping hand back balancing on one knee.  
  
Her whole body shook with the effort. She was very forcibly reminded how big of a difference there was between ten and eighteen. Jack leaned down, serpentine body bending nearly in two, and stared at her with eyes like a hawk. Black pits surrounded by sparkling red.  The bolt in his chest moved around a small, steady stream of blood, like a time lapsed blossoming flower. He leered at her; a line of sharp, white peeks and rotting fog.  
  
Buffy head-butted him.  
  
Her ears rang with the force of the blow and the sound of their respective skulls clashing, but she was already up and moving before the surprise wore off. Left hand released the crossbow, sliding up and around the falling weapon to anchor on the thick, rough skinned enemy wrist. Left leg tensed and sprung, lunching her upwards. Right foot stopped holding back the, momentarily forgotten, second strike and struck out to drive her first crossbow bolt back in the thick flesh.  
  
She didn't know if it would help, Jack had mostly ignored it, but it couldn't hurt.  
  
Years of cheerleading had her back flipping out of melee range. Instinct had her running for the field of grass; she needed room to maneuver and the woods wouldn't give her that. Yet, every step was threatened by a tangle of overgrowth. A fleeting, incredulous thought sparked in her mind.  
  
Where was the HOA when you needed one?  
  
Buffy rolled left, clumps of dead grass and thicker things digging into her back as she did so, and the remains of her own crossbow sped through the air where her head would have been.  
  
"Excellent!" The were-thing shouted, deep and joyful and skin-crawling. "Make it interesting, little bunny, and maybe I'll keep you!"

* * *

  
It was worried. The warmth still burned, because it always burned, but the darkness was growing. The Predator circled, because it always circled, but the darkness was growing. Ribbons of icy coal encroached on the haven of the warmth. Afraid, it skittered from the Predator's dark, half a step ahead of the strangling roots.  
  
The impressions of bone, and blood, and flashing teeth followed. The clink of beads as the Predator picked up the pace. But it was quick, and small, and nimble, and danced. The winding darkness could not catch it. The warmth burned in bursts, and the deeper it fled into the light the more it seemed to hear. The heat was almost unbearable, it burned, but echoes of that other place suffused the warmth.  
  
There was-  
  
_Crashing glass. Broken wood. Another predator that was not the Predator. Her skin was chilled, but she was hot. Her fingers brushed against a shard, sharp edges slicing skin, and she snatched it up and swept it upward across the reptilian face.  
  
He recoiled as his red eye filled with yet more red._  
  
The Predator roared. A gaping maw opened, and ate, and a void of nothing firmed the roots and... No. The warmth guttered, like a candle in the wind, the Predator withdrew and the world began shaking apart.  
  
_"_ _Jaaay." The other rumbled, a drawn out sound that started in the back of his throat and poured out in a threat. "Be proud. She saved all of Israel. A fine legacy for such a tough little bunny."_  
  
The Predator wasn't a guardian. The Predator was a parasite.  
  
It boiled with rage. It charged into the heart of the heat, growing as it went, tail lashing. It wasn't timid anymore. It wasn't alone anymore. There was **Rodere**.  
  
It would not let the Warmth be alone, either. 

* * *

  
Buffy couldn't breathe. Her head was being pressed into a puddle of black rain by a scaled paw that could have squished her skull like a melon cake. Her neck burned where his talons continued their meticulous work. It should have been him on the ground squirming, finger bones crushed, with broken ribs inciting a rebellion against oxygen. She'd killed him twice over. The blonde's eyes grew hot as tears mingled with the stagnant pool around her. It wasn't fair; he'd been fast, but she'd been faster. So how did he keep getting up, pulling away for the seconds it took the remains of his heart to knit together and his hamstrings to reattach?  
  
Buffy's vision, poor as it was half submerged, began to swim. There was blood in the air, oddly pungent, and soft idle humming as the monster finished his work. She didn't recognize it, or maybe she did but her very own swanson song faded out as a memory cushioned reality. A girl never forgets her first time, good or bad. The hardwood floor was gone with stone in its place and the intermittent sound of tiny beads against the window turned to the trickle of a desecrated fountain.  
  
Talons were teeth. Skin stretched over the Master's face as he smiled, her own blood bringing rosy tinge to cheeks that hadn't seen daylight in living memory. My fortune was foretold years ago, Buffy reflected as her hands searched blindly for a weapon. Xander had only bought her borrowed time. Xander.  
  
Buffy's mind turned away from her own impending death and to that of her friends. What would this monster do once he'd finished carving his initials in her skin like some discount Hannibal Lector? Willow and Oz had their own gifts, and could flee to safety if needed, but Xander couldn't. He was too short and too clumsy and okay maybe not so much the last anymore - but training could only help so much against something bigger, faster, and equipped with a hell of an irritating healing factor. One dies, and another is Chosen, but what of the Slayer's allies? What about Buffy's _friends?_  
  
This was why Slayers worked alone.  
  
Had someone said that once? She could almost remember dust in the air; something boomed in the background... _Wir sind tod. Dann sind wir nicht._  
  
Slayers are meant to die alone, happily, fulfilling their purpose. The Master. Evil Angel. Mayor Wilkins. A growl started low in her chest, her head was swimming, and a delirious rage kindled in her twisting, bruised stomach. She was Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Buffy comma the. Most importantly, Buffy first. Slayers died - Kendra and Faith and whoever it was before herself. _Buffy_ survived, because Buffy had reasons to.  
  
"Strange." Jack the Not Skellington articulated. He pressed close to examine his work, and Buffy could feel the heat wafting off his form in a line along her back. The pressure on her skull increased, and a thumb that ended in a dark needlepoint pierced the flesh just behind her ear. Blood welled up following the curve of her jaw until it hit the shallow pool. An involuntary exhale disturbed the water around her nose. "Every primal instinct is telling me to run, that something so small will eat me alive and pick its teeth with my bones... but we are not dumb animals, are we _Jael?_ Boons of the beasts paired with the intellect of humanity. Mother picked us for our _mind."_  
  
The small blonde's heart struggled in her chest as though it were trying to escape. Vomit tickled the back of her throat as lack of air narrowed Buffy's thoughts away from the villainous monologue and into one shining idea: If I die here, I won't be able to tease Willow on how cute she is when her dimples match her hair.  
  
Buffy's palms slammed into the floor, fingers curling as a desperate wail of adrenaline shot through her limbs. Wood peeled like soap shavings under nails that were too long and too hard, but when she dragged herself forward from beneath surprised claws to steal a breath Buffy didn't care. Like embers being rekindled, the slayer gulped down her second wind and exploded into motion. Still supporting herself with her left arm as flames ate along her broken ribs, she half turned and lashed out with her right. Thick, white nails supported by bony, oddly jointed hands cut across slit nostrils.  
  
Jack reared back with a screech, then slammed a fist down as if to crush her. The already aged and weakened floor split apart as Buffy rolled away. Her nose itched. She rolled to her feet and crouched, knee to painfully inflating chest, and bared her teeth. Energy sparked along her spine, down her arms, and the two combatants circled. She bounced on her toes. With each step a new scent drifted into Buffy's awareness painting a history of the empty home she couldn't begin to guess.  
  
"How? You do not- your scent was-" It came out as more of a growl of frustration than a string of words. Buffy ignored the crazed beast man as she maneuvered around an overturned love seat. Tiny bodies, warm and soft, watched from the walls. Help? No.  
  
He would eat them like popcorn.  
  
"You're kinda sad, you know." She could breathe again, and every inhale brought with it new information. And wasn't knowing half the battle? "All that power, and what do you do? Attack a bunch of girls who can't defend themselves-"  
  
"Mother's work-!"  
  
Buffy steamrolled over his objection, cracking her neck as her gaze took in the still dripping slashes across the killer croc's snout. Fear was a peculiar scent and not unlike fermented oranges. "-but the second one hits back? The moment a 'little bunny' shows some teeth? Boo-flipping-hoo. Go back to your basement, momma's boy."  
  
She punctuated her statement with an imperious shooing gesture. Buffy wondered if Jack could see the small tremors in her legs, or the rapid pulse in her throat. Skintight leather, or leather skin for that matter, didn't help at all to hide the way his calves tensed in preparation for a lunge. Buffy dove forward between his legs, twisted up, and raked her own claws across his back. Claws were _weird_. Unwieldy.  
  
But she didn't have the time to question them.  
  
His tail caught her at the hip and smacked the petite girl across the room like a dun colored tennis ball. Jack rounded to face her, expression twisted into an impossibly angry snarl, and Buffy hurled an end table at him by its last remaining leg. It went wide, but that wasn't the point. She became a blur as she dodged down a hall, breaking her speed with a wall and leaving cratered sheet rock in her wake. The jolly green gator chased.  
  
The house was a two story, as were many in the area they'd come to, but the estate had been abandoned. A pile of trash here, a forgotten lamp there, what little furniture remained lingered on limply like discount ghosts. Maybe they had been intending to sell the property, or just knock it all down and rebuild? Buffy hoped it was up for demolition, because then she could add humanoid wrecking ball to her resume.  
  
Jack roared behind her. Buffy went low, flush with the floor, to avoid his grab and then immediately rolled forward into a handstand as his tail skittered along the floor. She pushed, springing up to avoid the tail sweep, and as she came back down the slayer used her sudden increase in flexibility and weight to twist right side up and drop an axe kick to the enemy shoulder.  
  
Jack snarled and caught her arm as she tried to dart to the side, and he squeezed, her bones creaking dangerously until she ducked the punch aimed at her head and slashed through the tendons in his wrist. Buffy pulled back her leg for a push kick and grinned as the lizard's kneecap collapsed under her assault. There was that orange scent in the humid air, this time spiked with something bitter. Pain? Anger? What?  
  
The Summers' daughter danced away, claw tips trailing along the wall, and entered a wide room lined with empty bookshelves. Jack followed as his leg recovered, the damage as transient as anything else she'd done before - except for her claws. His left paw remained as useless as a stump, unable to close, his nose still bled, and he was _afraid_.  
  
And now he was trying to keep the distance between them, using his tail as a whip while her own much shorter one lashed in counter-balance like the worlds most dangerous game of Double Dutch. As another shelf was destroyed, and the contents of the drawers it was a part of spilled across the now ruined floor, yet another smell drifted to her nose. It was the scent of LA, of silly problems and sunny days. Acetone mingled with the pungent aroma of oranges.  
  
Buffy ran for it, instinct warring with knowledge, and as she somersaulted forward she picked up a heavy candlestick. When she looked up, the weight of the thing prickling uncomfortably in her palm, the only sign of the insane pangalatic gargalblaster was the disappearing tip of his tail. But she was faster. She had always been _faster_.  
  
Buffy panted, legs pumping as her lungs fueled the fire burning through her veins. Her nose twitched and she closed the distance, weaving around Jack's strikes and climbing up his ridiculous bulk. He telegraphed like a fledge. She brought the candlestick down on his head with a satisfying thud. Bone fractured, and green skin blistered. Buffy couldn't stop the inhuman scream of victory that tore from her throat. The monster beneath her lurched, and Buffy brought her impromptu mace down a second time. A third. A fourth...

* * *

  
Edward had been, in a word, annoyed when a body hit his windshield like a bloody paintball. The rain had let up, but his windshield wipers couldn't do much with the top half of a wereleopard that twitched feebly on his hummer. He'd been forced to pause his radio play after plowing through a road made slick with guts.

He almost hadn't recognized Anita, and it wasn't the gore on her clothing or the oddly straight nature of her hair throwing him off. The Executioner was a contrast of black and white, her typical work hours doing no favors for her naturally pale complexion, but the Anita staring at him with a wavering gun arm had the pale eyes of a husky and skin that should have turned to a red peeling lobster before ever growing that dark.  
  
They'd knocked the larger carcasses out of the road and then Anita climbed into his passenger seat. He'd never seen Anita so subdued as she pulled the door shut and buckled her seat belt on autopilot. Edward chose not to mention the girl they'd left behind in Jean-Claude's care. The little red head had looked about read to fall over, only sparing energy to glare at Anita and sit at the hellhound's feet as the Master of the City attempted to extract a bullet from the exposed carapace.  
  
And they'd picked up another, anyway.  
  
He reminded Edward of Peter. None of Edward's spares were suitable for a kid, too much recoil if one wasn't prepared for it, and neither of his passengers said a word when he ordered Anita to hand her Firestar to the kid. There were silver plated bullets for the Browning in the glove box.  
  
"Fudgemuppets." The kid breathed, following close behind Death as they made their way through the destruction. Anita was covering the back. Dust and wood shards were the most prominent of detritus, with ceramic and blood a close second. As the two went deeper into the abandoned house a rhythmic clanging sound could be heard.  
  
His shadow's breath hitched, but all Edward could see was an aborted forward movement before the brunette fell back into formation. Briefly, he wondered if Van Cleef had competition.  
  
Edward moved, checking each room for hostiles before continuing toward the slowing sounds of hammering. Blood crawled along the flooring without a carpet to soak it up. He stepped around the puddle, training his Uzi on the oddly tiny, tattered wererat mechanically slamming a bent candlestick into pile of pulped flesh. Shifters were unpredictable. They started as human, and could think and reason with a human intellect, but that only made them more dangerous. The most dangerous game, Death thought with a smirk.  
  
The kid cracked a smile, coughing. The small dun rat whipped her head around to stare at them both with cold, black pits. "And here I was betting on Colonel Mustard with the revolver."  
  
"Xan...?" The whisper was scratchy, animal as the shapeshifter blinked. Golden-brown furred head cocked as if listening to something. Whisker's twitched as all the regard of a _rattus sapiens_ turned on himself. "All that black? Looks more like the Dread Pirate to me."  
  
"You weren't answering the radio, Buffy."  
  
"I dropped it."  
  
"You have a tail, Buffy."  
  
"...Oops?"  
  
Edward lowered his weapon, though he didn't holster it. Still distant, the ghost of a howl on the wind, Death could hear approaching sirens.


	24. Like Sands Through The Hourglass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue. Timeskip. FRIENDSHIP IS MAGIC, OKAY?!

The night was young. In fact, it was young enough the witch could have argued if night was the appropriate description. There was enough light coming from the setting sun that they hadn't even switched on the fairy lights they'd strung up as if it were Christmas in July. 

Tiki-torches _had_ been lit, but that was less about illumination and more about warding off bugs.

Willow had tried to stay out of the way of the hustle and bustle as tables were loaded down with what she could swear was a supermarket's worth of food, and as result drifted around the drink coolers sipping a Capri-Sun. When she squinted her eyes and peered through her lashes she could almost see the spirits pacing alongside their humans. They looked like little ripples in the air: a sort of heat haze that either wafted off a shapeshifter's skin or followed in their wake. 

The scoobies' new minders, and boy did that thought make her stomach clench, were wolves and rats. A few hyena's had showed up earlier, but Mr. Lee had shooed them off with a glare and a flare of power. Willow sucked on the last of her juice, crunching the pouch as she did so, and pulled the yellow straw free only to worry it between her front teeth. She wiggled her toes in her new shoes. Her advocate had bought them for her after finding out the pair she'd been wearing was too big and retrieved from the SLPD lost and found. 

The concept was still a little hard to wrap her head around. The advocate; not the shoes. She, Willow Rosenberg, had a child advocate, which was sorta but not really like a social worker? She'd been feeding herself since she was eight and tall enough to work the stove. She wasn't an infant, and her physical body was almost eleven. 

She had flipped a jeep! All on her own! She was a mature adult (if not currently a grown woman) that didn't need no coddling, coven oversight!

...even if it would be nice to talk shop with some other witches. Assuming they didn't look down on her apparent age and give her the damn Yoda speech. Or start throwing Bibles at her. Willow didn't think she would ever trust _that woman_ again but watching Detective Reynolds get schooled by an _excommunicate_ had been highly satisfying. 

"Hey." Oz called out as he approached with a plastic sack of ice slung over each shoulder. Trailing behind him was his own advocate, arms full of 2 liter bottles of soda. The witch moved away from the empty cooler and worked her jaw front and back, chewing on the straw. It flicked up and down, Advocate Tim's eyes snapping shut as he jerked back from the minute drops of wetness that sprayed across his face. 

"Sorry." Willow spoke around clenched teeth, twisting the Capri-Sun pouch so hard faint dribbles of juice leaked from the top.

"S'okay, kid." Tim muttered, spacing the bottles out in the cooler before Oz ripped open his bags and dumped the ice on top. The man wiped his forehead with his forearm and surveyed the torch and table decorated expanse. "You holding up alright? I know this is... a lot of new people."

Willow took two quick breaths, and with one long exhale released her death grip on the pouch. She had an advocate. Oz had an advocate. Buffy and Xander each had their own advocates. A car in every garage and a turkey in every pot, she thought deliriously. "Yeah. I'm okay."

For all intents and court documents, this was their new house. Technically is was Rory Harris' house, at least on the lease, but deed belonged to Dark Crown Incorporated. Willow wasn't even going to try to figure out how Xander's crazy not-uncle got a job with a PMC, or why they were allowed to function on sovereign US soil. 

"It's not giving up." Oz's hand, still cold from the ice, cupped her neck. In the muggy Missouri air it was nice. When her werewolf leaned in she could see a scar marring the eyebrow where _that woman_ had shot _her boyfriend_. Oz took the remains of the juice drink from her hands and placed it in a now empty ice sack. His voice lowered as he pulled his witch into a hug, lips tickling against her ear. "We'll find a way home, Wills."

"Yeah." Buffy bounced into the hug, wrapping her arms around the couple. Willow barely had time to squeak before the supernaturally enhanced hold threatened to cut off her air supply. The Slayer's energy, once something that had been more akin to a background hum, slid over her skin like an electric blanket. Warm, and comforting. "Scoobies never say die! Expect, ya know, when actually killing things. Hey, have you guys seen Xander? I was talking to Master Splinter and he said if I can convince Parker _I_ can help set off the fireworks. I need those beautiful, brown, puppy dogs!"

Willow narrowed her eyes at the blonde slayer. "How many cookies have you had?"

"...I reserve the right to remain silent." Buffy intoned. She stepped back, crushing a plastic cup under her foot, before breaking out into another massive grin. "I mean, the rocket launcher was, well wow, but... Fireworks! I'm gonna set off ALL THE COLORS!!! Come on, I reserved a tailgate for us."

So saying, Buffy took her friends by the hand and charged through the massive throng of therianthropes. Off the clock mercenaries, administrators, and the odd teen dodged out of the way. As they weaved past the buffet tables -and Oz snagged an entire platter of cheese and crackers as they went- Willow watched Buffy's pony tail bounce with every exuberant step. The tip whipped against the back of her neck, and the thin white bandages wrapped around it.

The smile on Willow's face went a little lopsided. Jack -Piers Adamson's- handiwork should have finished healing a week ago, leaving not even a scar. The carving had been clean, if deep, and every morning they had applied disinfectant to it just like Doc Lillian said. Mr. Fane had tried to explain why, but it made about as much sense as how anything vaguely cross shaped would burn vampires back home. In Sunnydale. Here, at least, it required the magic of faith. Willow squeezed Buffy's hand, and her slayer glanced back. The low-light equipped eyes of Buffy's new rat form greeted the witch. 

He got what was coming to him, Willow thought unaware of the tiny ring of black creeping around her own sclera, only fitting he died with his skull smashed in. Just like Jael did to Sisera.

Idly, Willow wondered if the biblical woman had been a slayer.

* * *

Visiting hours had ended some time ago, but the hospital was as brightly lit as it ever was. Agent Jaeger's middle finger tapped her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose as she made her way down the hall. It was late enough, and the staff superstitious enough, that the only audience to her passage were humming air conditioners and bulbous cameras. Still, she kept her face pleasantly blank as she walked with a leather folio at her side. The cut ends of her brown hair fell in a frame of silk around it, and as she followed the colorful arrows hanging from the ceiling Agent Jaeger added a little skip to her step.

Emily Jacobs, twenty-four, single. One living grandfather, no other blood relatives. Two step-brothers. Graduated from Maryville with a Bachelors in Communications. Voted most likely to become an Evil Overlord by her high school graduating class; though if her Myspace blog and the psych-evals were accurate that had mostly been an ironic appointment. Emily Jacobs was a promising young woman, right at the beginning of her career, with few attachments. In other words: perfect. 

As Agent Jaeger approached Ms. Jacob's recovery room she nodded politely to the blond man leaning negligently against the wall. The first living body she'd seen since entering the burn ward - not that Ms. Jacobs was in need of that kind of care, but with a virus like Walsh's little abomination the attending physicians preferred to err on the side of airlocks and isolation- and he wore his own pair of sunglasses. They reflected her vaguely pleasant face back at her, but Agent Jaeger knew the eyes beneath them were a clear, crystal blue. Human.

Instinct and a spike of adrenaline had magic gathering at the tip of her tongue to enchant and enthrall, but with practice born of patience she ignored it and bared her teeth in a friendly warning. It was only fair. For all that he stood in a careless slouch, hands hidden in pockets, she could taste cold iron in the air. "Ed.... Theodore Forrester?"

The assassin-come-mercenary nodded as if tipping an invisible hat while replying in a slow, southern drawl that would fit right in a Hollywood western. "Agent Jaeger, Ma'am."

"I'm surprised to see you here." She came to a stop, and the tail ends of her coat swished against her legs. Her lips quirked as she adjusted her own stance. Tucking the folio she carried against her hip, an action that appeared as graceful as it did natural, she incidentally brushed back her trench coat to revealed the occupied holster at her hip. Ivory and silver gleamed in the harsh, humming florescence. "What with Piers being dead. Not like you to linger after a job."

She didn't congratulate him for the kill. She knew better, even if all the paperwork would say otherwise, even if he had been disarmed. It was too messy. 

"I could say the same." He shrugged and Death pushed off the wall. "Piers left behind quite a mess, I was thinking about helping with the clean-up before heading back. Shame to come all this way..."

Agent Jaeger hummed, unseen gaze flicking to the closed door and back to Death. While it was true a small handful of shifters had split off from Piers' original super pack and remained unaccounted for, that was a job more in line with St. John and his trollhunds. Death was immediate. St. John was inevitable.

"Sargent Storr and RPIT have everything well in hand, I'm sure. Your offer is noted but unnecessary." She took a bite of pleasure as golden eyebrows rose above reflective lenses. Of course, it might have been an act. "With Agent Moss being benched for charges of incompetency and corruption I have, unfortunately, inherited his cluster of fuck ups. If you will excuse me."

The man turned on a bashful smile and left, whistling. 

She wasn't going to tell him to kill a woman who had done nothing but survive, because he would, and he wouldn't even blink. Funny world, she mused as she stepped through the first glass and steel doorway and let the air cycle, when the humans are more monstrous than the actual monsters.

With her ears primed, Agent Jaeger easily detected the shuffle of fabric and the soft, warbled question of identity. It was dark in the room, but when the yellow light above the second door switched to green and the door opened the same blinding white from the hallway filled the chamber. It was bare, with room for more beds than the just the one, and typical. Someone had left a potted plant on a rolling tray, and a dying balloon sagged from where it had been tied to an IV stand, but other than those two attempts at hope desolation reigned.

"You aren't the night nurse." Ms. Jacob's whispered, her eyes pinched in the sudden brightness. She huddled in her bed, a woman grown but resembling so much a small child with hastily dried tears on her face. 

"No." The older woman cast about for a chair, couldn't find one, and stood by the bed with a sigh. She affected a gentle demeanor and pocketed her shades, smiling as Ms. Jacob's gasped at the red of her irises. "I'm not. I am a Special Agent for... well... here. You need to sign the non-disclosure agreement before I can get into specifics."

Agent Jaeger proffered the leather folio and Ms. Jacobs took it with a trembling hand. The younger woman fought with the knotted leather cord for a moment, nearly burst into another round of tears, and finally opened it by simply ripping the ties free from the rest of the book. She sniffled and blinked at the lengthy contract.

Signing it would practically be signing her life away.

But Ms. Jacobs fiancée hadn't visited her since the tests for the lycanthropy virus came back positive, and everyone knew how difficult it was for 'outed' shape shifters to hold down a job. Centuries of prejudice didn't disappear just because of a little legislation, and the right-wingers still held that therianthropes weren't really people, weren't a species, because to be a species you had to be able to have children and no female shifter had carried to term. Ever. God's judgement clear as day.

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

Emily Jacobs stared at the blank signature lines on the document. She ran her finger along the informational packet some office monkey had glued shut like it was a standardized test. One hour. Number two pencils only. 

"Do you have a pen?" She finally asked, voice just as scratchy as before but missing the shaky uncertainty. That will of steel was back, that element that was so terrifying and so human it had kept Ms. Jacobs alive long after Dr. Walsh's abortion tried to remake her into a queen to his king. Agent Jaeger plucked a pen from her pocket, clicked it, and spun the ballpoint around her fingers like a twirler's baton until cap end pointed toward the recovering blonde. The blue scrawl of _Emily S. Jacobs_ tasted like ripe barriers on Agent Jaeger's tongue. 

She sat on the bed, and took one of Emily's hands in her own. She played with the shadows so her smile wouldn't be so sharp, her gaze not _too_ other. "I am called Agent Jaeger, and I represent a joint taskforce between the CIA, FBI, and ATF. Generally, we refer to ourselves as Avalon."

* * *

The spoon was a thick, clear plastic exactly like the shit ton of other disposable forks and knives, but it felt like an insult. Anita ran her thumb along the handle and artful swirls that had been pressed into the fragile material. She knew, realistically, that the spoon hadn't done anything to her and was no comment on her mental state. The spoon was just that, a tool for the monsters to make play at humanity, and even if it felt like she was pushing around her potato salad with a goddamn feather she could snap in two without trying it was a spoon.

The plastic wobbled in her grip and milk-white stress lines grew like roots along the transparent utensil. Abruptly, the Executioner sighed and the scraps of anger that had been building escaped like air from a burst balloon. She hadn't wanted to come to the Dark Crown/Thronos Rokke barbeque, but Richard had stormed into her house like he owned the place -which he didn't- with his BFF trailing behind and her own inner beasts had sat up and _taken notice._ It galled her, the way her protests had caught in the back of her throat like swallowed back bile, how her former fiancé's mere presence quieted the conflicting menagerie until only the wolf remained. He was her _ulfric,_ and she was his _lupa_. 

Not just a title anymore, Anita thought morosely as she turned her gaze from the snot-yellow potatoes to the milling sea of shapeshifters. 

She set her plate aside, balanced on the edge of an already overflowing wicker table, and stuffed her hands into her pockets. She was hungry, but she couldn't bring herself to eat. Everything had meat in it. Everything. Spicy bratwurst, and hamburgers at various levels of done made up majority of the food. Salads were tossed with dressing and chicken, big bowls of macaroni and cheese hid chunks of turkey dogs, and even the goddamn potato salad had been liberally seasoned with bacon.

It made her mouth water.

Anita hated it. 

Lie, a smug spirit hissed by her ear before yelping in unseen pain. Anita clenched her hands and closed her eyes, visualizing, and dragged the shifting heat of her own power back under her own skin. A muscle in her cheek spasmed, smoothed, and the hunter's whole body flinched as a the crack-boom of the latest round of fireworks exploded above her. 

For a moment the world was awash in nostalgic light, and there were no munin, no monsters, no _mistakes_ , just herself and two warm hands, one big and one slender, on either shoulder while a sparkler slowly burned down from her fingertips. 

Thunder rolled and the ashy remains fell like rain, but it was blessedly quiet. Anita walked away from the eclectic circle of lawn chairs, dodging eyes and questions under the distracting pink and blue flares, and frowned as some young pup with a silver lip ring tried to follow the lupa while holding a bottle of Mike's like an offering. The blonde she-wolf froze, face washed out and pale in irregular light of happy explosions, and Anita wavered with an apology sticking her mouth shut. 

A frustrated growl crawled out of her chest and Anita whirled away, weaving around all the wolves and rats in people clothing. Her stomach gurgled -the weaker wolves' fear of their lupa's ire was tangible on her tongue- and her beast paced. Just the one. For now. Anita reached the small border corpse of skinny trees and pressed her palms to her ears to focus on the beat of own heart. She breathed, ignoring the therianthropes -the people- and the scents of blood, barbecue, smoke, and the very, very faint undertones of sex. 

The Executioner leaned back against a tree and ground against the bark until the pressure became almost unbearable. It was a bad idea, coming, and she should have stayed in the house no matter what Richard said or her shiny new court ordered physiatrist thought. _Executioner Blake. For the record, how long have you been hunting vampires - including time apprenticed under Executioner Rodriguez? How long has it been since you had a... fitness screening, I believe your colleagues in the RPIT call it?_

She was dangerous. She couldn't trust herself; she had shot a _child_ without a second thought... 

Her mouth watered, disgustingly, at the memory. Terror, adrenaline, and _so much meat_. If she couldn't trust herself, why the fuck should she trust some shrink that had never faced a life and death situation?

"Anita!" 

Brown-within-brown orbs snapped open and the vampire hunter reflexively reach for a weapon that was, purposefully, absent. She relaxed at the sight of gray eyes framed by loose wisps of sun yellow hair, and then immediately tensed up again as a quick inhale brought with it sweat-salt and spices. Anita's straightened, stomach uneasy, and tugged her t-shirt down as if she'd meant to do that all along and had not in fact been reaching across her body for a missing gun holster. "Ronnie. Hi. What are you doing here?"

One sculpted eyebrow arched. "It's date night."

"Okay, but what are you doing here? This is a shifter shindig." Which was what Anita had been told, and the only reason she'd agreed to it. If she lost control, even if it was only for a second, it wasn't as though any of the Rodere or Lukoi could be infected again. Not by her.

Only, Ronnie was human. Vulnerable. And unless the detective was hiding something up her very fashionable bolero sleeves she wasn't armed, either. Veronica Sims crossed her arms over her chest, a can of something tapping against her elbow, and repeated her earlier words if at a slower, carefully articulated pace. "It is date night. Did you forget who I'm dating?"

" _No_ ," Anita's cheeks heated with familiar warmth. How could she forget? Ronnie had always been a Richard fan, hated Jean-Claude for no real reason, and every damn time they met it inevitably devolved into more campaigning for her lover's best friend's interests. "Shouldn't you be at a movie, or something? Not _here._ "

Ronnie sipped her beer and then walked with determined steps to Anita's trees. When she stopped the heels of her fringed booties had the natural blonde towering over the shorter woman. A rocket blasted into the sky behind her, trailing a poignant scream, and shattered into a thousand points of fading golden light. "What? Because I'm a weak human? Newsflash wonder girl, so are you."

"Am not!" Heat wafted from her skin, and Anita's joints ached with potential. Her knuckles popped and the muscles beneath her skin wriggled like confused maggots. She stared; eyeball-to-eyeball with the blonde as a predator's teeth glistened. "I thought I was in the scene, but I didn't have a clue. Do you have any idea how fucking amazing you smell? Like slices of warm brisket between freshly baked bread. And that's the problem, Ronnie. It would be so damn easy to do it, and once there's blood in the air how long do you think Louie will be able to defend-"

"Oh shut the fuck up!" Ronnie shouted with a sloshing gesture of the beer. The majority of her next words were constrained by a rapid series of overhead crackles. "I get it, okay. So you turn into a freaky dinosaur once a month and get weird cravings. So does every woman under fifty. I'm tired of you feeding me second hand bullshit - you are my friend, Anita, and this is an intervention!"

Fingernails hardened, extending like knives. Anita's own blood was maddeningly sweet to her senses. "You don't get it Ronnie! It's like, there's these... things... inside me and I can't, I can't be sure-" She stopped, closed her eyes, pressed her palms to her ears and tried to cool the rage that flowed like ever-shifting lava through her veins. She wanted to be small. She thought small. Thought of the portrait that Jean-Claude had commissioned, that was supposed to be a surprise, of her and him and Asher. _Oh, Ma Petite._

Warm flesh delicately encircled her wrists, tugged. Anita looked up into a face that wasn't angry, though it might have been a little sad. "But I _do_ get it, Anita. I'm here, because Louie is here. He's so... you know what his idea of pillow talk is? Speculating the different origins of different lycanthropy strains. There's multiple ones, apparently, that can be tracked through fur coloring.

"My point is, you are still you, Anita. I'm not some southern belle that's going to faint from a little blood." The Executioner's gaze drifted away from the determined stony stare baring down on her. It drifted, uncomfortable, and caught on the pulse of Veronica's neck as the other woman's voice dropped impossibly low. "I've killed for you." 

"...but I'm so angry." Anita whispered, tired, eyes watering for reasons she couldn't understand. "I'm so damn pissed, all the time."

"Sounds about right."

Anita shook her head. "No. No, I can't afford to be angry anymore. It was hard enough when all I had to worry about was Richard's beast -but there's _so many_ now- and anger just makes them _more_. They need space to run and I'm not enough... and if I can't get angry..."

All I have left is the fear.

And the cold.

The dark.

Death.

Ronnie's hands, warm, on hers. "I can't feel what you're feeling, Anita, but I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. And if there's one thing I've learned over many a dinner date, it's that therianthropes of any flavor have _insane_ metabolisms. You have no idea how jealous I am of you, right now. So. We are going to head over to those tables and you are going to stuff your face with as many hamburgers as you've got 'beasts' and _then_ if I still make you want to go cannibal you can start a new diet trend with my blessing."

Anita sighed, exhausted from being a metaphysical yo-yo, and let herself be dragged back into the crowd as the light show started up into a rapid fire finale. "You're insane, Ronnie."

"Nah. I'm gorgeous."

* * *

It was dark in the cemetery at night, and unusually empty. Without a leader the galvanize them most fledges did the smart thing and left for greener pastures and easier prey as soon as they'd dug out of their graves. As such, as contradictory as it was to the new-age pagans, the Sunnydale Cemeteries were as much mystical centers of birth as well as death. 

"See! See! I told you!" Aud was about as aware of Hallie's glee as the breeze that fluffed her hair. While her body was sitting cross-legged on the grass her mind had dug deep into the earth. There were roots, and there was fire, and each measured breath she took contained oxygen rich with the chaos born of the conflicting two. 

Realities bleed beneath her feet. The Hellmouth was a gaping wound, edges still ragged and weeping after being blasted so far open, and it attracted demons and lesser non-humans like hummingbirds to a feeder. The witch exhaled, mentally crooning to the sleeping root systems, releasing carbon heavy gases along with the magickal power she'd refined in the furnace of her own immortal soul.

A shoot of green broke the topsoil, and Hallie paced around the circle of colorful sand Aud had laid down hours ago. The larger pieces of quartz caught thin slivers of moonlight like tiny diamonds, magnifying and refracting ghostly light. The shoot grew, directed by the witch's will and climbing the trestle of her power, feeding as it went. Keeping the vine healthy and controlled was an exercise in balance that tested Aud's own limits. 

The Hellmouth wasn't sentient, but the anger she nursed in her own breast turned toward the pit of aimless rage as a flower the sun. Her body ached, distantly, from sitting so long. A soul deep weariness tempted her to just stop -to let dark magic and chaos unfiltered rush into the seedling- and enjoy the show with Hallie as Audrey Two rampaged down Sunnydale streets. But that was the problem, wasn't it? 

Finicky, strange things souls were. She'd once thought she'd sold hers in exchange for power, for _vengeance_ , but that had been a lie. Souls couldn't be bought and traded like cheese at the market. It took extensive knowledge and the proper tools to even begin to manipulate them, and that only possible with the death or permission of the original consciousness it belonged to. Lloyd made a tidy bit of business reclaiming specific souls and giving them to their buyers, but then he did have a monopoly on the market.

Aud had never been one to disparage another's abilities, but the Angel from before he broke his curse and after Willow restored it just _smelled_ different and not in a ode de cologne sort of way. He was still the vampire with _a_ soul, of course, but so did Aud. Technically, she now had two.

As the purest examples of potential they burst into existence stupidly easy, hiding in flesh and bone like grit in a clam, time grinding down until not but the shining pearl of power remained. Souls were the one and only truly immortal thing in all the worlds. Ephemeral yet unbreakable.

Aud sighed, a slow exhale imbued with power as she directed the vine to grow 'out' instead of 'up'. The lone tendril thickened, now more akin to a small trunk, while the top split into a multitude of tender green branches. Despite the chill in the air sweat broke out along her forehead and the nape of her neck. Her own mind branched in time with the eager young Wisteria, and with a gesture the Orb of Thesulah that contained Faith's soul rose up. 

D'Hoffryn had pulled the soul from her body, once upon a time, and strung it up like a bauble on a chain around her neck. He had told her she was a soulless demon wielding the power of the Wish, in his name. And like a country hick she'd believed him. But that transformation had been no different from herself molding Olaf so his outsides matched his insides, and like all curses broke once the pre-set condition had been met.

She'd spent a thousand years unknowingly ripping her own soul to pieces, using the energy generated from such an impossible act to twist reality on its head, to birth new souls and power sources for the Lower Beings, and what was her reward?

With her necklace shattered in that other-world, her soul had been free to return to her body, and with her no longer soulless... well. For all his affability D'Hoffryn was a demon, born. They were known for their natures, not creativity.

Tendrils locked around the spirit vault that would serve as her new power center. Aud detangled herself from the living network beneath her feet, and opened her eyes with a tired, yet satisfied slump. In total the grave-grown plant was a head shorter than herself, with the main shoot woody and as thick around as her wrist. Blooms of purple and white spilled down from the top like a throne of clouds for the cheery little soul-sun imprisoned on top.

There was a reason behind that trope of wizard staves, and as Aud stood and shook the numbness from her legs she grasped her newly grown staff and with a flex of will snapped it free from the earth. The wisteria swayed, still living, leaving long blooms of white and purple to brush against her arm like baby kisses. 

"Anya, that's... awful." Hallie cooed, just outside the circle. Another demon stood with her friend in a sharp suit and bowler hat, recognition tickling the back of Aud's taxed mind. She would rather focus on the thermos alongside the basket of snacks in the patron saint of lost children's arms. Aud kicked the sand barrier with her shoe, dispelling the protective ritual, and accepted a steaming mug while cradling her new creation in the crook of her elbow. Hallie was right. It was beautiful, and it was blasphemous. 

Well, the road to hell was paved with good Samaritans. Only one of which she could be assed to care about. They should go shoe shopping tomorrow to celebrate.

"I thought only Lord Blue Balls could make power centers." The new girl, Advenire, flicked long brown hair out of her face and underneath the classic scarring of a made demon Aud saw a terribly young woman. She munched on a peanut-butter stuffed muffin and fiddled with her own pendent of a stylized sun while staring at the glowing orb atop Aud's staff. "You gonna challenge him?" 

Halfrek linked her arm with Aud's as they headed for the Cemetery entrance. The taller brunette hadn't been born a demon, she was a made one like Aud used to be, but some habits bred true. Aud had a husband to find, and there was only one entity who had known he was missing. Where he might be now. The thousand year witch shared a smirk with her oldest friend. "Vive la révolution!"

* * *

Xander opened his mouth, but instead of talking he shoved the second half of a mustard smeared, oversized sausage inside. It was difficult, and spicy. The brunette boy's face crinkled as his sinuses tingled and his vision blurred. His cheeks bulged from the action, but least the excuse of food earned him a few more precious seconds to consider his strategy before braving the no-man's land of awkward silence and dubious glances. 

To say his uncle's counterpart had aged better than the original was debatable. The Uncle Rory from his memories was a passable guy, if a little obnoxious and haunted by inner demons that for a pair of old, borrowed fatigues Xander had come to know all too well. But then, that was just about every Harris. Collectively, his family had probably put the owner of Sunnydale's BevMo!'s kids though college. 

Mirror!Rory lacked the potbelly his uncle had packed on over the years. He also lacked the fine sheen of premature silver that for the longest time Xander had thought was normal. The silver was still there, but the palette was reversed with salt sprinkled over a field of black pepper. The weirdest part, though?

Xander swallowed his sausage and beat his chest for a moment, coughing. Ice rattled in the plastic cup his not-uncle handed him.

The weirdest part was Mirror!Rory's expression. It was eerily familiar on a face that was both younger and older than he remembered. It was the face of deep concentration, of carefully compartmentalizing and _not thinking_ about something as the knives and needles danced between his hands and corpses became works of art. Yet, at the same time those eyes had the same distant, haunted fever of a Rory deep in his booze and mid-rant.

Xander gulped his sprite and then, apropos of nothing, his not-uncle said: "Jessie never wanted kids."

Xander spat his drink across the yard gradually emptying yard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "W-what?" 

"Not that I don't... want... you." The man spoke while staring into the depths of his own cup. In appearance it was near identical to Xander's, but the contents were very different. "Everything's different. The Dale is-" Brown Harris eyes blinked, and the wererat raised his drink to chapped lips. "-well. We're all that's left, according to the commander, so I guess it doesn't matter if Tony's wife kept her figure or not."

"Wow." Xander deadpanned. "I knew I was mom's accident baby but that's... blunt."

"Truth hurts." Mirror!Rory shrugged, then reached over the yawning chasm of odd feelings to ruffle his not!nephews hair. Xander scowled and leaned off to the side, scooting along the edge of the porch he was perched on with rocking movements. "But, true. You're family. I want you, not just because of the-" He paused again, another of those awkward silences covered with a sip of vodka that Xander was coming to recognize as the classified-shit-children-aren't-supposed-to-know pause. "-well. Better me than some foster fucks, right?"

Xander yawned, nodding. There was more to it than his uncle gaining custody, and he was damn sure that the advocates he and his friends had been assigned were way more than typical social workers, but right now? It was funny. He couldn't remember the last time either of his parents said they actually wanted him around. Hell, his dad had threatened to make him pay rent soon as he graduated high school. "I'm glad I'm not-not here, too."

* * *

Dana rubbed her ear against her coat clad shoulder, absently forcing warmth into the night chilled flap of flesh. Her feet slipped silently along the patched pavement, dark eyes wide to take in light from every flickering streetlamp. Here she could actually risk walking the streets. Here: where mud made from grit and discarded oil gathered in gutters, where the brilliant sparkles of multi-tiered glass towers were blind, distant sentiels, and where the eyes of Watchers were scattered and few she could do her work unhindered.

Dana gave a little hop, rubbing the bottom of her foot against the opposite calf to dislodge a rather large and annoying chuck of road debris. A smear of red stayed against her skin and Dana continued on, nose in the air. It didn't smell like shit, which was odd, but then she wasn't wearing a dress that came down to her ankles or the crossbow to match. The slayer raised empty hands to her head and ran her fingers through the scraggly mess of her hair.

She held a limp clump into the light and stared, hard. Her hair was brown. It was supposed to be brown - _It will only burn for a little while, Ekateria, to clean the impurities._ \- but hers was sunkissed yellow. Bright. And _hers_ was a pile of spiraling curls. Red ribbons against pale skin, and the bluest eyes. Everyone said so.

Shape doesn't matter, the Slayer thought with a displeased hum. Only the Hunt matters.

Dana frowned, hands on hips, and turned on her heel to see nothing but a deserted road. Her teeth ground together. Her hands formed impotent little fists. "Apunten al cuello."

Dana ran, snarl on her lips, retracing the path her failed bait of blood had made. Vampires didn't smell like humans. Humans were... meaty. Blood and life. Vampires were voids of life, unnaturally preserved, like wine that had been improperly sealed and turned to vinegar. 

Here, the sharp scent of vinegar was too strong. Overwhelming. Perfect hunting grounds.

So where were all the demons?

The Slayer ran. She ran back through the streets, through memories, hunting down reality. Swords clashed with axes. Warriors shouted battle cries. A wall of wire blocked the path, sharp points guarding the top, but a weak barrier all the same. She gathered her strength, and leapt.

Dana landed, and dropped, and swept her leg over the ground to trip up her wandering prey. The vampire fell, an expression of surprise on its face lasting only as long as it took for the demonic energies to destabilize and burst when the warrior it was fighting thrust his spear through the undead heart. Dana laughed. She bounded to the next soon-to-be-dead dead man and tapped its shoulder. A snarling, ridged face turned to look at her. Had to look down at her because it was a behemoth of a beast. With a crack she bloodied her knuckles on too-sharp fangs. 

Stupid, she thought, and thrust an open palm into its chest before it could recover from her sucker punch. The vampire's feet left the ground as it flew backward and into one of its compatriots. Dana plucked out the fang stuck in her phalanges and cast it aside with a grin. It was _funny_ , she thought, how you could cut pieces off and they didn't dust. Like they were really real, like vampires were _people_. 

жертва.

She recognized one: it had stabbed her, but the demon hadn't done it right. She'd survived, her first and last keeper hadn't, and the Slayer had slaughtered her way to vengeance until a bigger, smarter demon won. Briefly. It was good to see him again. Finish the job. 

"Slayer!" A different vampire, female with a mouth like a piss pot, shouted alarm as the rhythm of the battle changed to account for the new player. "She's a motherfucking Slayer!"

Dana danced to screams and shouts and the roar of blood in her ears. Hearts thumping like war drums. She dodged a punch, and trapped the extended arm in the crook of her left elbow before chopping down on the vampire's limb with her right hand. With a bit of effort a slayer could warp steel. The vampire screamed as its joint shattered.

Dana grunted as talon like fingernails scrapped at her face, barely missing her eye. She pulled on the wounded arm, falling backward, and flipped them both. Climbing off the stunned, cursing demon, Dana drove her heel into the soft flesh of its neck until the vertebrae powdered. 

Then, the enraged vampire's grip on her own leg -it had been squeezing rather painfully but the vessel didn't matter _she was death, absolute_ \- vanished as the rest of the undead body returned to dust. 

"I didn't sign up for a freaking Slayer, Knox!"

A wooden bolt flew over her shoulder as the vampires sounded a retreat, and her own anger at their cowardice - _that one_ was always a coward, always running from them- was echoed on the faces of the patchwork warriors around her. Anger like a stormcloud burst from her throat, " _Nein!_ "

Corazón, y cuello. Y cuello.

Cut off the head, and the body fades. If she let them leave here, they would just set up shop and feed elsewhere. She was Chosen. This was her Purpose. Dana was moving, muscles burning with exertion, kicking a roughly fashioned spear into her hand as she went. The leeches' leader was in retreat, moving lizard-like from boarded window ledge to boarded window ledge. Dana threw the spear as others before her would have, a prayer of good fortune whispering through her mind, and gulped air as she picked up her pace. 

The weapon bit into the crumbling brick like a tick on a dog, the long shaft vibrating, and Dana didn't slow. She leapt onto a rusty truck, the man in the bed of it dodging away from her with a cry and a stake in his hands, only to carry her momentum with her as she curled her burning legs beneath her and sprung arms outstretched. Her hands wrapped around the shaft sticking out of the wall as her body followed, whirling around the repurposed piping. At the peak of her turn she released, a howl ripping from her mouth.

Dana cut through the air, arching upward, and kicked the fleeing Master in the shoulder just as he pulled himself onto the roof. The force of the collision sent him falling away from the building and back to earth even as Dana herself crashed onto and rolled along the warehouse roof. Grinning through the pain in her chest, her face, her limbs, Dana stood on shaking legs and peered over edge. Knox's warped, demonic visage blinked sulfur yellow eyes and clutched at the trio of oversized stakes sticking up through his torso. He had landed on some sort of ballista.

Before the vampire could leverage itself free from the impromptu skewering, a sword wielding man hauled himself into the back of the truck and brought his blade down with a set of truly vicious blows. Untrained, but anger lent the antique the power to cut through muscle and splinter bone. Dana listened to the wet sound of death as the vampire's struggles only extended its pain. 

The metal staircase wasn't far; she limped over after testing how much weight she could put on her right leg. Already a fingered bruise was forming, and as the last of the vermin had been executed her reason was waning. Dana shivered, sweat wicking away in the wind, chipped paint flaking from the stairs as she worked her way back to ground level. 

"Shit, man." Someone said as layered clothes rustled. The clink of chain and drag of wood. "Didn't you see her move?!"

"No human is that fast." A woman whispered with her stake held protectively to her chest. 

Dana felt her head swim, and in the darkness of broken streetlights the burning lamps mounted by the ballista was a beacon. The metal in the war band's leader's hand was dull with age, veined with rust, and the Slayer wondered where the dark skinned boy had found such a treasure of ages past. They were staring at her. They were all staring at her. Her toes flexed.

"The vampires called her a _slayer_."

"They also called her a motherfucker. I'm not inclined to listen a fucking corpse, Bobby."

"I don't care what she's called - she _looks_ like a bloody serial killer. Literally." Yet another voice shot back, though this one held one of the spears out, guarding his body. Guarding against her.

A boy clutching a waded shirt to his neck coughed. "Killer or not, crazy super-bitch saved my life."

Her words failed her. Words were not... Dana. Words were _her_. She tried to smile like she would have smiled. Confident. Happy. Her stomach rumbled instead. She took another step forward toward the mouth of the alley, toward the humans. They stepped back, weapons free. They did not carry sheathes.

"Big bro! Look at her wrist!" 

A boy, no, man stared down at her. His coat was once leather but had been patched with every material under the sun. Still, it looked warm. Dana blinked and looked down at her own coat. Already the once pristine piece was covered in a mishmash of gore and little rips where she hadn't been quite fast _enough_.

Dana held out her arm and glanced at her bracelet. The material was thin, smooth and formerly white. She'd tried to rub the blood off, to keep it clean, but only ever succeeded in the smearing sticky demon bits over the thing. 

"Chain!" The war lord barked, finally hopping down from the truck. The vehicle groaned as the extra weight left it and Dana almost missed the object flying toward her head. She snatched the thing from the air, a growl dying in her throat as she took in the cross and beads hanging in her grip. 

It was pretty. A gift? Payment, for her work?

Dana looked up from the rosary to see the man had come within spitting distance of her. He watched with unsettling intensity as she looped the beaded length around her bare wrist with a pleased huff. "Good enough for me. Vamps can't abide Christ."

Dana's eyes widened as a girl with the biggest, curliest, most beautiful hair stepped beside the swordsman. "Charlie?"

The Charlie raised his voice, projecting, and Dana blinked at the odd subject. "She might crazy killer, yeah, but if any single one of us went to the cops and told them about the vampires you know what they would say? That we're crazy. And we are. All of us. For not rolling over and letting the bloodsuckers drink us dry! She kills fangs, and that makes her one of us."

The girl smiled, a real smile, not the twist of lips that was all Dana could manage. Her voice was gentle. "If you want. I can take a look at that cut. We have a roof that doesn't leak, at least, and it isn't always warm but everybody eats."

The Slayer wet her lips, eyes flicking between swordsman and spokeswoman. She _should_ leave. Her stomach twisted, she had eaten here and there but nothing warm or truly filling. Dana's voice was rough, and she had to cough to clear her throat, thinking of fresh bread and hot soup, but what came out was: "Scoobies?"

The girl didn't stop smiling at her, instead offering an open palm, weaponless, and Dana accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little reminder that though I don't expect to be able to write them anytime soon, or possibly ever, They Had Crossbows was meant to be the first in a trilogy of stories. I'll post another 'bonus' chapter with some notes to these aborted other fics after chirstmas, for those who are interested.
> 
> ALSO! Any resemblance between how D'Hoffryn and a certain incubator work is entirely coincidence. I swear. This fic was started in Oct 2010 (check TTH!), and Anya's basic plot was already hashed out. I rewrote that scene three times before I figured out why it was bothering me so much. *headdesk*


	25. Story Notes/Art Post

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this posts successfully, my internet has been drunk since New Year's Eve.

First off, I would like to thank everyone who kept up with this story from the fumbling beginning on TTH to the Archive's sprint to the finish line. There were a few moments where I thought about abandoning the story thread entirely, but the occasionally poke from reviewers checking to see if I was alive helped a lot. Seriously. FireWolfe, DianeCastle, draconis, normanK, ImperialDragon... and others. You guys are the real heroes. Unfortunately, as some have pointed out, there are a few plots that didn't get wrapped up before the Epilogue. This is because when THC was started I had envisioned it as the first of a trilogy. This is not to be - I simply don't have the overabundance of energy and free time that I had during my highschool and college years.

I'm still writing, I don't plan to stop, but the likelihood of me fleshing out and writing the sequels to They Had Crossbows is very, very slim. Instead, I give you spoilers? Spoilers.

**No Sugar Tonight**

Where THC was focused mostly on the Scoobies and the Anita "Verse with the occasional pop in to see how those left behind faired, No Sugar Tonight would have reversed this. Dana, Gunn, Giles, Joyce, and _Walsh_ would have been our main characters, with Aud/Anya schemes and Buffy and crews experiences in the background. It would have been revealed that without Buffy to take out the vampires at the college they would continue to 'rule the roost' as it were, eventually turning one of Walsh's soldier boys and eventually infiltrating her group as a whole. This would lead to not good things, Dana having proper Slayer Dreams instead of craziness, and her, Gunn, and a few others splitting off from the main group in LA to investigate. Possibly with Angel and/or Doyle following close behind as Alonna would have looked into getting Dana some help in controlling her visions, and Doyle actually has some experience with that.

And so, here is some concept art I made waaaaaaaaay back when, with my shitty Photoshop skills:  


Another plot I was toying with was a weird Sunday/Adam romance while Joyce takes in Gunn and his 'little crazy' and is torn between helping the young Slayer get her head on straight... and encouraging her madness, because then she can hear about what Buffy is up to.

Meanwhile back in St. Louis the events of _Narcissus in Chains_ are happening, but not in a way that occured in Canon. For instance, as Anita actually is a panwere and not simply 'suspected' she twigs onto Chimera from the get go and isn't playing. And Buffy would beat the shit out of the Micah when he attempts the _infamous shower scene_. Buffy as a Wererat is learning all sorts of fun things from Rafael and the other ex military Rodere members. Everyone is basically settling in and polishing their skills.

And in the way, way background Aud is networking like you wouldn't believe completely unaware that the Key is trailing behind her and Halfrek like a lost little sister.

**With A Will**

_This_ story would return to focusing on those in Anita 'Verse, and infact reveal that Anya has arrived by highjacking a demon summoning. To her displeasure, however, she has also been de-aged and everyone thinks she is the first example of a _baby_ demon. Or something. Crosses and prayers don't exactly work on her. Anita, the closest person with demon summoning experience (the demonolgists in California basically said 'up yours' when asked to fly out) gets called in to question Anya who is demanding to see "her Xander". Name dropping the 'heroes of St. Peters' drags Agent Jaeger (who is of fairy descent, if no picked up on that) out of the woodwork and results in Anita bringing the 'battle brats' along. 

What no one suspected was that the city Anya got summoned to was Kansas City, and the Vampire Master who rules there is _Darla_.

There is also Alternate!Angelus who isn't actually as dead as the Vampire Council believes, his maker having saved him at the last minute at the cost of a good portion of his face burning off in holy fire. To make matters worse, as mentioned in THC Darla has the power to call Rats, is irked that Anita killed one of her few friends, and happens to have a vacancy when it comes to bonding either a human servant or animal to call. Buffy is up for a roller coaster of emotions.

Meanwhile in California Giles and Gunn have started the foundations of a new Watcher's Council, name pending, though Dana refuses to call them anything but Shadow Men. Because _the Shadow knows_. Oh, and Halfrek is running Glory ragged and tearing up LA because _no one fucks with my protoge, hell-bitch_.

As a final story goodbye, here is a bit of concept art that was done for They Had Crossbows back in the day:


End file.
